


Diviner Bureaucrat

by Iravaid



Category: Vampire: The Masquerade, Vampire: The Masquerade – Bloodlines (Video Game)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Malkavian LaCroix AU, Self-Harm, Sexual Content, i gave that bastard haunting prophetic visions and some HUMILITY
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-04
Updated: 2021-01-28
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:47:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 45,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27867858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iravaid/pseuds/Iravaid
Summary: A full moon hung in the sky, three days after the Battle of Waterloo. While Sebastian LaCroix was intended for clan Ventrue, the Malkavians had other plans.In the 90s, as the Anarch Free State begins to dissolve, everyone expects the Camarilla to make their move in an attempt to reclaim Los Angeles. But no one ever thought they'd install a Malkavian, of all things, as Prince. There's more than a fair share of uproar on both sides.Jack of course thinks it's the funniest thing to happen to the city in decades, who knows what'll happen next.
Relationships: Sebastian LaCroix/Nines Rodriguez
Comments: 70
Kudos: 57
Collections: The Many Clans of Sebastian Lacroix





	1. The Transylvania Effect

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Transylvania Effect - The belief that the full moon causes insanity or madness in individuals

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there's a reference to rape/dubcon bracketed by double line breaks, there's nothing explicit but it's there regardless  
> EDIT: I just checked the dates for when LaCroix comes to town and i thought it was '94 but it turns out it was '03, so if you saw that, no you didn't yes you did <3

****

**United Kingdom of the Netherlands, 1815**

_Captaine adjutant-major_ Sébastien La Croix and four other men had been running since that fateful night. Like a fox in the hen house, the Prussian forces had descended upon _La Grande Armée’s_ flank and scattered its men. Sending those thousands still remaining out into the Belgian countryside, leaving their compatriots to rot on the damp farmland. His brow aches from where the butt of a musket split it, blood long since dried up and flaked away. 

The only chance Napoléon had of winning the war was to keep the two armies separated, but it had failed at the last minute. For all Sébastien knew, his Emperor was dead. And with it, the end of France’s most prosperous era.

His only wish now was to return home to Calais. It had been a long fight, a long war. Weariness leaches into his bones with every step away from that battlefield. They couldn’t stop just yet. The drum of his heartbeat keeps the rhythm of his forced march. His strained breathing the military band of this five-man troop.

But even soldiers need rest after three days of running. The moon hangs swollen in the dark night sky as they set up camp. The crackling fire struggles to stay alight on top of the damp ground. It had rained before the battle, humid air clogging with the smell of blood and metal. If Sébastien squints, he can see dark shapes on the moon’s surface, like pockmarked scars, or the shadow of a face. He blinks away the blurring white globe, casting his gaze out into the woods' ever-shifting darkness .

There’s something in the air. A buzzing energy like the moment before a fight. Only, Sébastien cannot see the enemy side. He can’t pick out the shapes lurking between the dark trunks and roots of ancient trees. But that old, animal hindbrain swears something is there. Biding its time for the right moment to strike.

Sébastien wonders if this is how the deer feels when stalked by the hunter. How its head would jerk upwards, eyes and ears focused in every direction. The desperate certainty that a predator is watching, but no such evidence to prove it. 

A cavalry lieutenant tries to take first watch, but Sébastien makes no move to leave his post. The other man had left with a sigh, lingering gaze on La Croix’s rigid back. Maybe he didn’t feel that looming threat, maybe he was simply too tired to register it.

Sleeping isn’t on La Croix’s mind. Not when he still feels the weight of his heavy musket in empty hands, when his ears still ring from screaming men and horses. No, better to watch for any Prussian or Anglo Saxon soldier hoping to pick them off. 

So he watches, and waits. Eyelids growing heavier with each inhale, falling lower with each exhale. The mind is a buzzing entity of fear and sour memory, kept alive by frayed nerves and screaming instinct. But the body is tired and demands rest. Slowly, the shadows of the forest and the shadows behind his eyelids become one and the same.

A branch snaps, close enough to rip Sébastien from his shallow slumber. He jolts, scrambling for his musket. Before he can react, something slams into him with enough force to knock him clean off the ground. He crashes down into the mud with an impact that rattles his teeth.

Sébastien roars, trying to throw the assailant off his back and warn his sleeping compatriots. With hands too sharp and too strong to be fully human, Sébastien is pinned to the ground by his shoulders. He musket is trapped underneath his chest - Sébastien grabs for the knife in his boot instead, only for his arm to be seized and wrenched behind him.

Sébastien wheezes as a knee grinds into his back, just between his shoulder blades. His arm burns where it’s twisted up behind him.

_Niet worstelen en avfal die energie. Je hebt het nodig, jongen._ A voice hisses into his ear. Sébastien doesn’t understand Dutch, but their tone snaps out like a rabid dog. The man's breath holds something heavy and sharp. A stab of nausea lances through Sébastien when he realises it’s the smell of blood.

He strains to look around him, the surrounding struggle kicking up chunks of moss and damp soil. In the murky fog he sees the clash between his men and the attackers. They move fluidly around the startled, half-awake soldiers. As if they were aided by the darkness rather than impeded by it. The moon’s white light bathes the fight in a surreal glow, and Sébastien swears the eyes of one attacker glints like that of an animal.

The fight ends before it ever began. The thugs descending on Sébastien and his men with all the force of a tidal wave, giving them no chance to fight back. One body lays very still on the ground amidst the struggle. Sébastien recognises it as the cavalry lieutenant.

From the dark Belgian forests, a figure emerges. He wears nothing but a ragged pair of trousers, bare feet caked in mud. His skin is sickly pale, almost ghostlike in the light of the moon. His head is shaved, and circular, purple scars dot along his upper body. Dark veins twist up his neck and arms like angry, coiling worms.

He barks something at the surrounding men in Dutch. They jump into action, dragging the prisoners into a line, side by side. Sébastien grunts as he’s manhandled into a kneeling position. A hand grasping tightly at his hair forces him to look up at the figure.

“ _Bonsoir, soldats_.” Croons the man in a soft voice. Lips pulling back into a sneer of a smile, bloodied teeth catching the moonlight. “All lined up in a row of neat little ducks. How quaint.”

He begins to walk down the line, eyes fixed intently on their faces.

“I would apologise for such a rude awakening, but none of you have had untroubled sleep for a long time. Half your minds are still on that farmland, dodging cannon fire.”

One eye is pale like the afternoon sky.

“You are in luck. In the nights that wax and wane, there would be nothing left of you brave soldiers, but drained husks. But tonight? When the face is full and gleaming? This is an _opportunity_.”

The other is yellow, like it was ripped from a wild dog and shoved into his skull.

The man suddenly stoops down, grinning face shoving itself in front of one of the soldiers, a man from Sébastien’s corps; _soldat_ Angevine. Angevine flinches back from the man’s rancid beath, neck muscles visibly straining against the grip in his hair.

“Do you know what we are?” Asks the man, leaning forwards. “Has our sheep's clothing fallen far enough for the herd to see the truth?” 

“ _Va te faire foutre_.” Angevine grits out, wincing from the stench and pain. There’s a pause that hangs in the air, Sébastien holds his breath.

The man and his comrades begin to laugh, dark chuckles swirling in the misty darkness. They hold the same promise as the glint of a sharp hunting knife.

In a flash of pallid motion, the man’s jagged nails dig into Angevine’s neck, but not enough to break the skin. Angevine straightens, whites of his eyes flashing.

“This mulishness borne of ignorance is due its shedding.” Whispers the man. He smiles and throws his head back to catch the moonlight and he cackles and… and his mouth opens wide.

_Are those fangs?_

“Did you ever listen to your elders? Monsters lurk in the shadows, and you have plunged headfirst into that darkness.”

“Vampires.” Comes a hissed whisper from a _cannonier_ Sébastien doesn’t know. His wheezing breathes come out rapidly as the man’s head whips around to face him.

“Little Rémy, head in the clouds and yet the most perceptive of his lot. In mortal terms, yes. That is…” He smiles again, drawing dry lips back from curved canines, “ _exactly_ what we are.”

He leans close to the _cannonier_. Frowning suddenly, the man draws away. “Hm. No. Not you.” He sneers.

The man stalks down the line, continuing the pattern of fascination and rejection. The thugs surrounding the downed soldiers cheer the man on; making sounds of interest as he considers them and booing at the soldier when the man finds a flaw. Like some sort of sick theatre audience.

“Victor… too soft. Even for mortals. Soft eyes that would turn to jelly from the visions of Hecate.”

A small part of Sébastien’s mind wonders how he knows their names. How he seems to pick them apart with a single appraisal.

“Pierre, yes. Yes. Tough leather, like the Clan of Beasts. How unfortunate there are no Gangrel here to Embrace you.”

Then, the man crouches down to Sébastien. It takes all his willpower to look into those burning eyes without flinching. 

“Now… this one.” The man chuckles, a wet sound, like the bubbling mucus. “Hollow eyes, tired in their clarity. How familiar your face, perhaps from a vision half remembered.”

A grip clenches around Sébastien’s jaw, thick nails digging into the soft flesh where neck and jaw meet. His head is tilted from side to side as mismatched eyes stare intently at his face. The man hums.

“Sneer befitting of the Blue Blood Clan. And how ironic it would be for such a pretty face to be twisted by the Crawlers. But no, _no_ : it would not take much to open your eyes.” Sébastien jerks his head out of the man’s grasp, choking from the stench of rot coming from his mouth. “Not much indeed.”

The man straightens.

“We are in luck, Kindred. As the eye of Artemis watches over us, a new seer lies dormant in living flesh, waiting to be released from its bountiful shell.”

Sébastien is dragged from the ruined campsite - kicking and writhing in a too-tight grasp. Shouts from fellow soldiers ring out behind him, quickly silenced by the other thugs.

The man looks back at Sébastien, at the moss and clumps of dirt being thrown up in his flurry.

“You fear the unlife that faces you. Know there are worse things than continuing on after your heart has shrivelled up and beat its last.” The man jerks his head to the left. “Here, this glade provides us the perfect amphitheatre for your Embrace.”

Sébastien is thrown down. Again, that abnormal strength makes itself apparent when his body is lifted off the ground from the creatures’ heave. Before he can rise again, the man straddles his back, body weight pressing into his shoulders and knees digging sharply into his elbows.

His head is wrenched upwards at the sky, at the blinding light of the full moon. There’s the rasp of a weapon being drawn above him. Sébastien would struggle if he could, would scream his voice ragged until no sound came out.

But the _moon_. The moon is full and bright and awful, and he cannot turn his gaze away.

The man’s voice is close to his face, he can feel the faint breath bat against his muddy cheek.

“Do you see it? Do you feel her gaze upon you? This is the end of you, and the very beginning. _Embrace it!_ ” The man screams.

Sébastien feels a deep, cold pain strike across his neck. He gasps as blood sprays outwards in a thick, red fan, gulping like a fish out of water. There is wicked laughter ringing out around him. That grip stays firm in his hair as he jerks and gasps against the fatal wound.

Sébastien’s heavy head falls to the ground as his strength gradually leaves him, body growing cold. He struggles to feel his extremities, vision going dark as the ground becomes coated in his own blood.

“Look up, _jongen_. Let the moon get a good look at you.” Cold, cold fingers dig into Sébastien’s jaw as his head is wrenched upwards to the swollen eye of the full moon. He feels something tear in his neck as blood begins to leak into his mouth and dribble down his chin. It takes all of his dwindling will not to vomit.

When his jerking limbs begin to fail, when his eyes roll back in their sockets, Sébastien feels his mouth being pried open. A liquid trickle leaves a trail of fire as it runs down his throat.

As Sébastien’s vision goes dark, red begins to creep into the light of the moon.

A deep hunger blooms in his empty body, ripping away any logic and sense. A Beast awakens. Not too far from here, Sébastien hears three hearts pump thick, red blood through fragile blood vessels.

Sébastien’s skull aches as budding fangs split from his gums, ready for their first baptism.

* * *

_There are flashes of images: silver fur and black gums line bloodied fangs. A guillotine blade glints in lamplight before crashing down. An outstretched hand curls into a fist. Sebastian looks out a window and the ocean is burning._

_Do you trust me?_

_No._

_Squat, red towers whisper to run, but the warning is not for him. A gunshot. The feeling of rough fabric on his fingers. Sebastian is running, then he’s drowning._

_The water turns to blood, an old corpse laughing as it does._

* * *

**???**

Two mismatched eyes snap open. One is blue, the other yellow. Sébastien tries to gasp, but his lungs do not respond. The air pools strangely in his throat before he coughs it out. Lurching upwards, Sébastien is kicked down to the ground by a foot planted against his chest.

“ _Guten nacht, jongen._ ” Croons a familiar voice. “Tell me, was your rest insightful?”

La Croix looks up to a sneering, wild face with eyes that match his own. It’s night again, a waning moon hangs in the sky, face slowly turning away from him. The rustle of leaves and sticks rasp around Sébastien in jeering whispers. He tastes bile as he holds up his shaking hands. They’re coated in blood. The skin around his mouth and neck feels tight where the viscera had dried.

He should yell, throw the man’s foot off his chest, and run. But there’s a strange pull in his bones that makes him want to stay near this man. It overpowers the fear he should feel, compressing it to a scratching unease in the back of his skull.

The man takes his foot off Sébastien’s chest, letting him sit up. He stands, pale skin rippling in the moonlight, sharp bones creating deep shadows across the man's bare torso.

“You have questions, of course. But let us clean the blood from your hands, yes?”

He holds a hand out to Sébastien, whose own lifts up to take it. A fragment in the back of Sébastien’s mind screams as it reminds him this man had slit his throat, attacked his soldiers. He was a threat. But a thick veil separates Sébastien and that voice. He stumbles up like he’s drunk, legs wobbling with all the certainty of a newborn foal.

“As we do so, tell me: were you graced with a vision?”

“Vision?” Sébastien cracks out. He winces when he feels dried blood flake away in the back of his throat.

“Kindred do not dream, _jongen_.” Replies the man, almost softly. He leads Sébastien to a river with an almost companionable air to him. “There is quite a bit to explain, now. But we have time. We have all the time in the world.”

His voice burrows in Sébastien’s ear, digging into his brain like how a tick buries its head in dog flesh. Sébastien cannot help but listen with rapt attention. He doesn’t know why. A part of him hates himself for it. For not dying. It knows what comes next.

* * *

There are rules to Kindred life. He cannot consume food as he once had, instead he must feed upon the blood of man and beast. The daylight will kill him. The Masquerade must be upheld lest hunters track him down, or fellow Kindred put him out of his misery to restore it.

He is a Malkavian, closest to the veil than any other Kindred. Clan of the Moon, Cousins of the Fae. Lunatics.

The man is called Ziener. He has seen five centuries, and lived through the Black Death. Ziener never mentioned it, but quiet whispers tell him what those old boil scars mean. 

There will be more visions like that first one. The prospect of more of _that_ makes Sébastien's atrophied heart clench. The first vision had left him shaking long into the night, even as its strange contents faded from his memory.

“You are a seer, _jongen_. Through my blood you have inherited an ability only a few Malkaians are blessed with. Ghosts will whisper to you, their voices the channel by which the truth may be revealed.

“There is insight, and then there are visions. They come to us unbound to the realms of waking and dreaming. The eye of Luna watches over us and makes them all the more stronger as her gaze focuses. They tell of futures yet to come: portents, and blessings alike. Some hide their meanings under shrouds of myth and symbols, but it is simply a test of our mental prowess.”

There are other clans. Some luckier, some less so. The curse of living death takes many forms, from the twisted faces of Nosferatu, to the Toreador’s destructive empathy. Ziener tells him the curse of Malkavians is only a curse to those who can’t understand it. He tells Sébastien their insight and visions are a gift from Caine himself. It’s an honour for Sébastien to have been chosen to carry their Vision.

* * *

They travel through Europe like a roving plague. They find a town to root into for a handful of nights, bleeding the folk dry before continuing on; dodging beasts and men alike. Sébastien had never believed vampire hunters existed until one's crossbow bolt nearly found its way between his eyes. Another Malkavian yanked him out of the way, whispers warning her of the attack. 

The voices are a companion Sébastien wishes he could leave behind. They cling to his shoulders and burrow deep into his skull, rattling whispers that either make no sense, or leave him wanting to claw his ear out. 

_You're in for it now._

_Maggots love you, trust me._

_All are blind whose eyes are closed._

Sometimes it was just sobbing. Loud, painful gasps that send shivers up Sébastien's back. Walking through busy towns was a challenge, especially when he needed to keep a straight face as quiet voices gave cryptic warnings. Some laughed. Those unnerved him more than anything else. The laughter was loudest around Ziener, like there was something funny about him.

Sébastien comes to learn it's not an affectionate name, _jongen_. Simply a reminder of his unwilling company, who refuse to speak French and laugh as he stumbles through sentences in Dutch. Ziener has not once asked for Sébastien's real name. No one uses it now. It is just _jongen_. His old name hasn’t been spoken in years. During the quiet lulls between travel and slaughter, Sébastien repeats it back to himself in barely-there whispers, a reminder of who he was before this.

Some days he has to repeat certain tasks, over and over and over again. He had to do it right, or else something terrible would happen. Sometimes he's convinced the townspeople he passes know what he is, and that they're following him. Waiting for his back to turn so they can run him through with a pitchfork.

There are days where Ziener has him chained to a tree as the panic and paranoia takes over his body and the whispers sing in chorus to his paranoid raving. It's always strongest during the full moon; when the voices are loud, and the visions are so clear they make Sébastien's skin ache. Ziener takes to leaving him restrained far from camp at this time. He'd lost the desire to tolerate Sébastien's lunar lunacy years ago.

The other Malkavians seemed to share similar experiences, but not all could handle it. Despite Ziener's meticulous Embracing rituals, not all his Childer could stand the overwhelming nature of both the voices and Vision. Sébastien knows his mind has been warped from the Embrace, he knows his thoughts run a different course than they used to, wheeling around wildly like a brainsick deer.

But as he watches several Malkavians pin a writhing fledgling to the ground, he realises the only thing stopping Ziener from putting a stake in his heart and leaving him for the werewolves and sunrise is his abilities as a seer. The Childe before him had only shown signs of catatonia, repeating what the whispers had told them. To Ziener, that was a failure. A weak link in his roving pack of prophets. Sébastien holds his breath to keep the ashes out of his mouth as Ziener saws off their head with a hunting knife. It's a redundant motion, but a rooting one in all this madness. 

His visions make up the thin tightrope upon which he balances, keeping him in Ziener’s good graces. They grow strongest in the full moon, even appearing during his waking hours. They grip Sébastien like a vice, taking over his senses and plunging them into vivid dreamscapes. The perspective is always changing, the smells always different, hundreds of different forms and figures make hundreds of appearances.

The vision are never the same, but they all leave him shivering. They interrupt his conversations and make his torpor nigh unbearable at times. But they’re accurate, and almost always come to be.

One had stuck to Sébastien for weeks: a silver cross gleaming in candlelight, a black eagle screeching as it dug its talons into his arms. Those two images repeating, over and over in Sébastien’s mind as they crossed borders and rivers alike.

When they took shelter in an abandoned cathedral, Sébastien’s eye had caught the glint of a hanging crucifix. He was surprised it hadn’t been stolen, and how it still gleamed like it was newly polished. That realisation had plummeted into his stomach like a lead weight as the pieces clicked together.

They bare got out in time, before twenty hunters burst from the basement, armed with crossbows and swords. A torch is thrown onto the dry pews and it goes up in a blazing gout of yellow and orange flames. One neonate is barred from the exit, caught between a wall of fire and a looming hunter. Ziener doesn’t make to go back to help her, hadn’t even bothered waking her as they fled. Her shrill screams cut off long before Sébastien is out of earshot. 

The coterie slinks along a muddy riverbed, careful not to make too much noise as the yelling of men and beating of horse hooves play out above them. The hunters must have been hunting Ziener’s coterie for some time now, frustration clear in their voices.

Ziener turns to Sébastien, singed and tired. Mismatched eyes take in Sébastien’s hunched form, glimmering with a sort of pride. Yellow eye flare brighter as it catches the fire.

“Once again, the _jongen_ has achieved what none of you could hope to do.” He announces to the grim crowd. “Tonight we will run, and hope his visions remain our shield from the pursuing bloodhounds.”

Burning glares dug deeper than the pressing ache of the fires.

They cling to the dying shadows as the hours crawled by. Following the riverbed for miles until the quiet, sheltered forests became jagged mountains. They settle down for the day, morning’s torpor beginning to claw at the corners of their minds.

The other Malkavians are jealous of him, Sébastien knows this now. Staying in Ziener’s good graces meant you got first pickings, were protected from the rest of the coterie, and could sleep in inns and hovels when they were available. It was always a fight. Just not for his dearest _jongen_. He’s at no risk of abandonment or beatings with sight as powerful as Ziener’s own.

* * *

* * *

Leering hands and a blanket feeling of submission; Sébastien tries not to remember nights spent alone with Ziener. He hates when they go into villages and cities because of this. In the nights where they’re in an inn, and Ziener directs him to the room they share with a cold, lingering hand, that small part of Sébastien wishes he’d been too catatonic to function. Too anxious or manic to string a sentence together. When he’s pressed down onto the mattress, that small part wishes he’d died.

Sébastien wonders when the man’s paranoia will win over and he’ll have Sébastien killed. He wonders if he’d bother fighting back. Maybe then his wraith could crawl back home, and he can tuck himself into the ground to rest. Or maybe he’ll join the whispers in every Malkavian’s head, another voice in a haunting chorus of millions.

* * *

* * *

It’s when they reach Calais that Sébastien feels himself physically strain against the blood bond. The vitae in his system is haunted by the blood that once inhabited it. Sébastien slips away from the coterie as they slink down the winding streets. He follows a half-remembered path, turning a corner. The road becomes familiar; if he continued down it and then turned left, he’d be standing in front of his family’s manor.

But there’s hooks digging in his arms and legs, and Sébastien is held in the crossroads. Nothing happens. No family member or house servant catches a glimpse of the lost son. He stands there, listening to the quiet whispers of sailors and dockworkers tell him that he should run. He knows. He can’t.

A hand clasps his shoulder. To an outsider, it is a friendly gesture. But Ziener’s sharp nails dig into the skin, threatening to rip his shirt and pierce the flesh.

“Come, _jongen_. There is nothing left for you to return to.”

The rest of Sébastien follows numbly after Ziener. But a fragment of him chips off and stays. It screams at the house, begging for someone to recognise him. It's been so long since he was _home_. He grinds his fingers to stumps on the cobblestone, snapping his fangs against the rock in a desperate attempt to reclaim his lost humanity.

That small part of Sébastien curls up on the ground, withering away as he leaves the city once more. His head aches with the promise of a new vision, the hollowness of his arteries telling him it is time to feed.

The man has died. Something awful rises up and takes its place. 

* * *

_His hand plunges down and snatches a blue snake from the water. It’s not his hand. The snake has his face._

_Snare. Sever. Burn._

_A red rose rises in the place of the sun. A leather tent contorts into the shape of a beast, springing up and running from the encroaching light. The rose's vines and thorns lash out and tear it apart. The boy watches it die with a fanged smile._

* * *

**Los Angeles, 2003**

Jack isn't one to snoop. Sure, he'll lurk on the odd occasion, but his style is more arson and announcing his presence for all to hear. But when news came that the Prince's first meeting was being held in Nocturne Theatre, Jack may have slunk in through the vents and watched the events proceed from above. He's heard the rumours, and they were more than interesting enough to justify the risk of sneaking in.

There weren't many Camarilla left in LA, which resulted in a small pool of potential primogens. Jack sees Strauss and Grout in the crowd. Some Toreador woman in a fur coat, Therese Voerman, Gary, and a couple other familiar faces are scattered throughout the theatre. No Kuei-jin, thank Caine. Jack's almost surprised Isaac and Nines didn't make an appearance as well.

Though it was probably for the best, considering the new guy talked a lot of shit about reclaiming lost territory and squashing out the Anarch presence in the city. A huge Nagloper stands guard behind the Prince. There's an equally large sword strapped to his back that looks like it could make mincemeat out of Jack in a couple swipes. He's almost impressed.

The meeting seems like the usual bag of Camarilla hot air; a lot of showing one's fangs without any real bite to them. Then the Prince stops mid sentence, back going ramrod straight. His head turns upwards and Jack darts away before he can see him. There's a pause as the Prince stares upwards, eyes flicking along the metal structure. He clears his throat before resuming his speech like normal.

Jack catches some shared glances in the crowd. Strauss looks less than pleased watching someone other than himself give the big Pincely speeches. Jack sticks closer to the shadows, wondering how the hell the Prince knew to look up. 

When the meeting is finally dismissed, the Prince already arranging for _another_ one in Ventrue Tower, Jack makes a show of getting down from the platform, alerting the Prince to his presence. When Jack jumps down the last few rungs, lights a cigarette, and turns to face the new guy, he almost inhales the damn thing. 

“Ha." He laughs to hide the coughing. "No way. You really are a fuckin’ Malkavian.” Explains how he knew Jack was there.

Two mismatched eyes - one pale blue, the other a vibrant yellow - fix on Jack with a neutral expression.

_Lets 'em see through the veil, Jackie._ Says the voice of Mama Lion. _Their own built-in hagstone._

“I assure you that despite my bloodline, I’m quite lucid.” 

“Oh, fancy accent and everything. What are you, some Ventrue pet project? They doll you up in a nice suit, make you brush your teeth, and send you to LA to get torn to shreds?”

His brow twitches, Jack counts it as a win.

“I’ve earned my position as Prince of this city, Mr…”

“Jack. That’s all you get.” Jack responds, crossing his arms and letting out a cloud of smoke.

“Right.”

That big Nagloper makes a step closer to the Prince. He's uglier up close, not that Jack's surprised. He's heard they use Vicissitude on themselves, warp their flesh into beasts worse than werewolves.

"If it's all the same to you, Jack," the Prince starts, stepping away from the Anarch. "I have business to attend to. Good evening."

Jack doesn't respond. Sucking in another breath of smoke and letting it linger as he watches the pair leave the theatre. Jack never caught his name, but he doesn't doubt it'll crop up again sooner or later.

* * *

"Did you hear? They made some foreigner Prince of LA and, get this, he's a fucking Malkavian."

"What? Those guys can be Princes?"

"This one is."

“Is he really Malkavian?”

“Yeah, he’s got those freaky eyes, feels like he’s staring into you. And he talks in goddamn riddles.”

“You hear about the new Camarilla Prince?”

“Yeah, some Malkavian bastard. Who woulda thought the Cammies would put one of them in charge.”

“Goes to show how much hope they have for LA.”

“More for the Anarchs.”

* * *

It's been a month since the Camarilla managed to weasel their way back into LA, and people have yet to shut up about the new Prince. Jack has to admit, this is the funniest fucking shit that's happened to the city in years. Of course the Camarilla would send a Malkavian to deal with Los Angeles; no one sane would bother with this city. Almost takes away the bitter taste in his mouth watching another Anarch Free State fall apart under pressure from the other sects and their own infighting. 

The Last Round buzzes with more theorising and bitching about the new Prince, LaCroix or some shit. Apparently he'd already been trying to get his claws in Hollywood by buying a handful of upscale restaurants in the area. And a Sabbat warehouse had been blown to hell not too long ago, no Anarch or Kuei-jin had claimed the attack as of yet. While the Camarilla denied any kind of confrontation with the Sabbat, Jack would put money on it being them. 

Right now Jack's got his eyes on the leader of his own faction. The man's been increasingly tense ever since that little French asshole waltzed into town like he owned the place. Hasn't done anything yet, but Nines isn't the kind of man to sit around twiddling his thumbs.

So when Nines walks over to Jack, leaning against the bar, he's not surprised when the guy asks him about LaCroix.

"Heard you listened in on his first meeting." Nines shoots Jack a side glance, opening the beer bottle chucking the cap in the bin.

"Maybe I did." Jack grunts. "What's to know?"

"Just want to hear your piece on him. I don't think anyone in here's met the guy despite how often they talk about him."

Jack huffs a laugh. "You're probably right. But us Kindred are awful gossips when you take away the fangs, blood magic, immortality, and all that." Nines watches Jack expectantly.

Jack sighs, taking a last swig of his drink before flagging down the bartender for a whiskey. Even if he can't get drunk like this, it feels like a whiskey moment. 

"What's to say? He's got Insight, so half his attention'll be on the voices or whatever. And he's got a gold-plated stick up his ass with no desire to remove it. Just another Camarilla stooge."

Nines hums, running his thumb along the neck of his bottle. 

"If he's not as dangerous as everyone's made him out to be; then I think it's about time we go and meet this new Prince. Give him a proper Los Angeles welcome."

Jack snorts and knocks back his whiskey, wishing it burned like it had when he was still alive.

"Yeah sure, may as well see how this goes." He mutters, following Nines out the bar with Damsel and Skelter. He wonders if Beckett'll make an appearance. Something in his guts is telling him this whole garbage fire is about to become pretty damn historic. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this Might become a nines/lacroix fic, i'm still undecided but the tags'll change when i make up my mind lmao  
> there actually Was a full moon three days after the battle of waterloo, i checked  
> there's a lot abstract/in a different language, i feel like i should clarify a couple things here;  
> Niet worstelen en avfal die energie. Je hebt het nodig, jongen - Don't struggle and waste that energy. You'll need it, boy.  
> Va te faire foutre - Go fuck yourself  
> Blue Blood Clan - the Ventrue  
> Crawlers - Nosferatu  
> eye of Artemis - the moon  
> and Mama Lion is Jack's sire, just fyi
> 
> if you enjoyed reading this, and want to see more, or want to ask about something in the fic, please do leave a comment and a kudos!  
> 


	2. Childe Amidst the Flowers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Look like the innocent flowers,  
> But be the serpent under't.
> 
> Macbeth, Act 1 Scene 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> specific warnings for this chapter - graphic depiction of someone being bludgeoned to death, encompassing scenes are bracketed by double line breaks

**England, 1846**

The Society of Leopold pursue Ziener’s coterie with all the fervour of a bloodhound. The ambush in the cathedral had only been the beginning; some young German hunter latching onto their trail and locking his jaw.

After losing the hunter and his pack in Russian Poland, and circling back to France, the coterie stow away on the nearest ship as it sets across the Straits of Dover. Under the cloak of Obfuscate, honed from decades of use, he and Ziener creep up to the top deck. French and English deckhands work around them, none the wiser to their presence. Hummed songs softly ring out as they labour by the faint lamplight. The boat rocks against rough waters, turned inky and viscous under the half-moon’s light.

Apparently, Ziener knew some Camarilla Kindred who owed him and would provide shelter until the hunters found a new prey to pursue. He neglects to tell Sébastien why this benefactor was obligated to do such a thing; Ziener was more proud of the fact that someone was indebted to him than anything else.

“The Camarilla love their deals, _jongen._ Can’t deny themselves a glimpse into their future for leverage against pesky rivals. Use that to your own advantage.”

Sébastien nods, the cold wind whipping against his face and running through his hair. It hadn’t changed since his Embrace. No scars or beard, either. No evidence of the time that passes him by as he slams against the coffin lid.

Sébastien tastes the sea air in a slow sigh, taking in the sights that had once dominated his childhood before he was sent off to _l'École spéciale militaire de Saint-Cyr_. The spectral cliffs are like a haze that lingers in the backs of every Calaisien’s mind. Sébastien remembers clambering about on the rooftops to peer past the docks on clear days, looking out at those shores. He’d always wanted to visit England, imagining the adventures to be had there with all the whimsy of a child.

Now, Sébastien stares up at the sheer rockface as the boat nears. Their stunning white rocks are scarred with brown, green and black. Not perfectly smooth; but craggy and pitted from the bashing of seawater. They shower his face in an ethereal glow that almost hurts to look at. He hasn’t spoken English since he was young, Sébastien wonders how much of it he’s lost.

Sébastien has only heard of the Camarilla in passing, through muttered curses and dark glares at unfamiliar Kindred. A breeding ground of nepotism and incest, the Camarilla are infamous for their underhanded politics and infighting. If there’s one pleasant thing the other Kindred can say, it’s that the Camarilla upholds the Masquerade to a near fanatic standard. Ziener says his coterie are above the sects, too enlightened to be dragged down by ties to a faction.

Except, now they depend on one for their survival. Sébastien doesn’t voice this thought; opting to listen to the creaking boards as they strain against battering currents.

Sébastien looks up as Dover’s port emerges from the shore. He’d ball his fists up in his jacket pockets if he owned one. But he’d been wearing the tattered remains of his old uniform, and random, scavenged articles of clothing, ever since his Embrace. Sébastien thinks, maybe someday, he’ll wear one again. Finally be able to hide from the chill of unlife, and Ziener’s phantom gaze.

_The white rats are filled with tar._

_Throw yourself overboard, the water’s lovely._

_Look out below._

They jump over the rail and clamber down thick ropes as the ship drags itself into port. The round cobbles are smooth underfoot as the coterie weave through Dover. It bears a striking resemblance to Calais, perhaps because of England’s prior occupation of the latter. The people were alike, too: their blood holding the same scent. The only difference was the language they muttered.

The smell of sea salt is barred from entry into Thrysk manor. Dark breeze stone walls are stained by soft, yellow lamplight that peeks out small windows on the top floor. Under the veil of Obfuscate, Ziener’s coterie slink in without a whisper.

The inside is lavishly furnished; large atrium filled with dark wood furniture and intricate, blue rugs. A spiral staircase leads up to the second floor. As they linger in the atrium, a flustered ghoul almost screams the entire manor awake. Ziener clamps his mouth shut with a dirty hand.

“Be a dear and find me your regnant.” He whispers.

Wide eyed, the ghoul complies, scurrying down the hall without a word. He re-emerges with a middle-aged woman in a blue dress and white shawl. A cane with a stylised silver snake making up the handle is clenched in one hand. Sébastien assumes this to be the head of the manor and Prince of Dover: Lady Ophelia Thrysk.

A grim expression sets her face in stone. Grey eyes flick over the pack with barely hidden disgust as Ziener explains their predicament. After a tense moment of silence, Thrysk invites Ziener to continue the conversation in her dining hall.

The long nails of the manor’s mistress sharply tap against a small porcelain cup. Across from her, Ziener lounges in a plush chair, picking at the threads in the armrest. Sébastien stands immediately behind Ziener, mirroring parade rest with his hands clenched behind him. The rest of the coterie were left to linger in the parlour. Lady Ophelia Thrysk spares Sébastien a frown before fixing her attention on Ziener.

"You know you're not welcome in Dover." Her Dutch is fluent, clipped English accent warping some of the words. Thrysk’s lips pull thin, sharp gaze raking over Ziener as he smirks.

"Yes, my sodden lady, you were very threatening. But there were no visions of ash on my journey here." Ziener flaps his hand dismissively, stretching back in the chair. "And there's a _reason_ you have the power in the first place to bar me from an entire city."

He looks up at Thrysk as he says this, cocking his head with an innocent façade. An ugly snarl ripples across the Ventrue’s face before her calm mask resettles.

_The drowned woman holds many secrets in her reservoir. There are cracks in the dam and the flood will drown her._ Comes a whisper. Sébastien wonders if Ziener is one of those secrets.

Thrysk opens her mouth to speak but closes it when she remembers she’s not alone with Ziener. Thrysk’s gaze flicks back up to Sébastien again, squinting suspiciously.

"Curious about the neonate?" Chuckles Ziener. He gestures to Sébastien. "A straggler from His Emperor's grand army after their last stand."

“And why is he here?”

“Simply to monitor, watch for the odd fulfilled prophecy.”

“He has visions?” An eyebrow raises, interest piqued.

“As brilliant as my own.” Ziener declares, grasping Sébastien’s arm like he were a trophy.

Lady Thrysk’s gaze turns considerate as she looks at Sébastien, taking in his tense shoulders and clenched jaw. The squint in her eyes refuses to betray her thoughts as Sébastien tenses in Ziener’s touch. 

“Fine.” She says after a long pause, gaze calculative. “I will offer your coterie Haven from the hunters. Take the guest house. Don’t use the furniture for kindling.”

Ziener places a hand over his chest as he stands. “I knew you would see reason.”

Ophelia gives him a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes, hands steepled in front of her. Sébastien feels a gaze on his back as he walks out the room, but assumes it to be Ziener’s.

Alone now, Ophelia stares at the swirls in the yew table. She smiles, ever so slightly; the new seer’s presence may finally mean the severing of a loose thread. Like the Ventrue she is, Ophelia waits for the right moment to dig a stake in his chest and leave him for the sunrise.

* * *

_Eight ghosts trail behind a ninth, who wears his corpse. A man with the face of a bat holds his hands up in a silent beg for mercy._

_He will be of great use._

_The drowned lady drowns. Sebastian loads his rifle and looks down the iron-sights. Damsel of distress. His bloodied hands fill with diamonds. They spill over the sides, into another pair of cupped hands larger than his own. Helter skelter. A piano softly plays in an apartment. Hands reach for a key. The lion’s cub watches intently._

_Don’t open it_.

* * *

Thick-limbed and stiff, Sébastien wakes with the feeling there’s a conversation he must have. The coterie are in the guest house, taking advantage of the unguarded wine cellar. Their jovial bickering and teasing halts when he stumbles from Ziener’s room, starting back up again as he slips through the front door.

The distant sounds of the port can be heard from the manor, a lone bell rings out to signal the hour. Purple, black, and blue streak the sky as the dwindling hours of dusk steal away the sun. Sébastien enters the main house, door latch clicking open and hinges groaning from his push. Ghosts and diamonds rattle in his mind as he wanders the manor, still shaky from the vision.

_Up the stairs._ The floorboards creak against his weight. _Left._ Hardwood floor gives way to plush carpet as Sébastien inches along the second-floor hallway. There are other Kindred sequestered away in other rooms, not yet risen from their torpor. Ventrue are often the last to rise at night.

The whispers grow louder as he reaches the end of the hall, their invisible fingers clawing against the handle of a black door. Faint candlelight flickers underneath it, dancing orange shadows swipe over Sébastien’s feet. He presses his ear to the door and hears nothing but the faint scratching of quill on parchment.

Sébastien swallows. If he were alive, his heart would be thundering in his ears. Hesitantly, he raises a hand and knocks once. There is no response. As Sébastien turns to leave, hoping Ziener didn’t notice his absence, a single whisper inches its way into his head.

_She waits._

Sébastien stares at the door, small whorls in the wood peek out from the darkness. The brass doorknob is cold against his grasp. Opening the door, Sébastien enters a room lined with large bookshelves and assorted curios. A single window with large wood shutters overlooks Dover; in front of it sits Lady Thrysk. Her desk is piled with manuscripts and loose sheets, cane leaning against it. An ink pot sits by her elbow and her quill rests beside a half-finished parchment. She had been waiting.

Sébastien stares at the woman, frozen in the doorway. She gives him a polite nod.

“Good evening.”

Sébastien nods back, casting his gaze to the side of her head. He’d found it difficult to look people in the eyes since his Embrace. He’s not sure why, but the act makes him feel uneasy.

“Do you require anything?” She asks, filling the silence of Sébastien’s non-verbal response.

“I believe you’re the one who’s requiring, watcher of Dover.”

The woman squints at Sébastien, suspicious air picking up around her.

“Perhaps.” There a pause as the Prince looks over Sébastien with inquisitive eyes. “Tell me, Malkavian, who are you loyal to?”

Sébastien has always been quick-witted, something many people from his past life would attest to. But he’s only become sharper, prolonged survival depending on his ability to draw the correct conclusion as quickly as possible - no matter how little information was given.

“You want to know if I’ll help you kill Ziener.” He says.

Her brows shoot up to her hairline. With the huff of a humourless laugh, Lady Thrysk shakes her head.

“I assure you-“ She starts, Ventrue charm sleazing into her voice.

“Because I will.”

Sébastien’s interruption stops Thrysk in her tracks. Thrysk’s mouth clicks shut; eyes wide before she blinks away her surprise. The haze of Presence leaves his mind. 

“Well.” She clears her throat, regaining composure. “That was certainly sudden. What possessed you to wander up here and find me. Did a servant tell you where I was?” Her tone takes a suspicious turn at the end.

Sébastien shakes his head. “All those whose eyes are closed are blind, and mine have been open for some years now. If you wish, I’ll happily be the serpent under the flowers.”

Thrysk’s vision softens slightly, as she watches Sébastien stand rigidly in place.

“He hasn’t been kind to you, has he?” Her voice is seemingly gentle as she asks this.

Sébastien fixes his gaze to the intricate wallpaper behind her. After a handful of seconds, he shakes his head. He doesn’t see Ophelia grimace and suck on her teeth. She turns to face Sébastien fully.

“Come in, then, we have much to discuss.”

The dark door clicks shut behind him, as Sébastien steps into the warm room.

The talk lasts less than half an hour, but both Kindred are nothing if not efficient with their limited time. A plan begins to pull itself together and, for the first time in three decades, Sébastien feels the ghost of hope murmur against his sternum.

As Sébastien makes to leave, Lady Thrysk asks one more question:

“Be honest, now. Are you the only one with Vision? It would be a waste to lose so many useful prophets for the removal of one man.”

Sébastien doesn’t flinch, but his pause feels too long.

The others of his coterie all have some level of Vision, such is the blessing of Ziener’s blood. But… Sébastien would become much less unique should they survive. Being a seer in Camarilla society would undoubtedly bring ample protection. But that security becomes much more fragile if there are others who can offer such abilities.

Some were kind to him; when the fight for Ziener’s grace lulled and their bitterness ebbed. One had unchained him once, when Ziener forgot. One taught him most of the Dutch he knows now, exceedingly patient as he struggled to pronounce the ‘h’ sounds. 

“No.” He says, the guillotine falling. “I am the only one of Ziener’s coterie with his abilities.” His _level_ of ability.

When the Ventrue nods gravely, taking him at his word, Sébastien understands how important these kinds of lies are for his survival.

* * *

The preparations occur at a painfully slow rate over the week; Thrysk sending ghouls and Kindred into Calais to spread rumours about the roving pack of prophets in Dover, and purchasing a large warehouse on the docks. It would take time for it to be set up, regardless of the daytime workers and Kindred assistance.

During a rainy night, when water roars through the gutters and into the drains, Ophelia invites Ziener to her parlour. It’s been almost a century since Ophelia had met with Ziener, but something tells her he hasn’t changed much since then. Convincing Ziener not to flee to America like he’d originally planned may not be the hardest part - if she plays her cards right.

“Why the sudden hospitality?” He asks, brow raising. Ophelia hums as she unlocks the door.

“I have been swept over by a sudden feeling of nostalgia, Ziener. Humour me and we may converse like old times.”

“Back in the old times we relied heavily upon the veil of secrecy.” Snorts Ziener, following her into the quiet room. It’s as lavishly decorated as the rest of the house, with two large armchairs surrounding a fireplace that hasn’t been used in decades. A ghoul walks in through the servant’s entrance, placing a two crystal glasses and a wine bottle filled with blood on the table between them.

Ophelia fills their glasses, Ziener holding his delicately by the stem. They’re quiet as they relish the taste of fresh blue blood.

"Where's that Sheriff of yours, the Abyss Mystic?"

"Aurelia is conducting some business of mine in London. The Tremere have been gaining power with the rise of occultism in the capital, and Mithras requires aid."

"Mutual scratching of backs by scratching the Warlocks, then? How Ventrue."

Ophelia hums, swirling her glass. It would be foolish of her to deny the ideals of her clan.

“Nasty business, this, with those hunters.” She says instead, sipping at her glass.

Ziener laughs humourlessly.

“It would be less nasty if I disposed of that black mold clinging to my shadow. Even the whispers seem unconvinced the Atlantic is enough space between me and that black eagle.”

She sips at the blood, peering at Ziener in her periphery and drawing on Presence. Just enough to weaken those defenses.

“Then why don’t you?”

Ziener frowns.

“What?”

“Dispose of them. The hunters, by all accounts, are merciless and dogged in their pursuit. Yes, they may lose your scent and move on to another target, but what if they don’t? What if this game of cat and mouse only ends with the death of one party?

“You’re a powerful Kindred, Ziener. I’m not so proud as to deny that. These hunters, they’re barely neonates in our standards. You could rip them apart with your coterie at your back and finally be done with those menaces.”

There’s a pause as Ziener takes in her words, recognising the truth in them.

“Maybe I could.” Ziener murmurs, staring into the dark fireplace. “It would be a slaughter, yes, a shattering of the mask.”

“Remember that I am Prince of this domain, seer. I could overlook this… transgression if it means the removal of both you and those hunters.”

Ziener lets out a chuckle. “So quick to send me away, despite all the time I’d spent in your service.”

Ophelia looks into her glass, ignoring Ziener’s stare.

“That is exactly why I need you gone.” She replies, taking one last swig. There’s a pause, before Ziener huffs out a sigh.

“Fine. Listen for their movements with your whiskers, we may set a trap for these rats yet.” He says, gulping the contents of his own glass and standing up.

Ziener doesn’t see Ophelia’s smirk as he strides out the parlour. He neglects to hear the whispers telling him of burning water.

* * *

The building Thrysk had purchased is nestled between the sea and the rest of the warehouse district. The entire structure was made of wood, with high windows letting the moonlight in. Sébastien feels a solid cloud of irritation bubble up in his chest as he enters the warehouse. The ghouls she’d assigned to prepare the trap were setting it up wrong. They were being too incompetent for such an important job.

He watches one place a straw dummy in the box of moonlight cast in from a window. It would give them away immediately, ruining the entire plan. Do they not understand the severity of this plan? He storms up to the ghoul.

“Get out.”

She flinches from his sudden, harsh tone.

“What-“

“I said to go! Leave!” He snarls, eyes wide and face twisted into a frown that makes the ghoul shy away. Her and the other workers make themselves scarce as Sébastien hisses and spits.

Furiously, Sébastien paces the warehouse. Manic energy wreathes him as his eyes dart from the windows to the strawmen. Those ghouls didn’t place them _right_ , did Sébastien have to do everything by himself?

He yanks up one with enough force to send bits of hay fluttering to the ground. With a grunt Sébastien repositions it so the moonlight won’t betray the deception. So long as Ziener was desperate enough to do away with these pursuing hunters, the coterie will know no better until it’s too late.

They needn’t worry about the lack of auras: Ziener’s bloodline had Vision at the cost of Auspex. Not that Thrysk needed to know that. Sebastian had had five pigs slaughtered and their blood harvested to douse the decoys. Just to convince her they still possessed the Discipline. The idea had come to Sébastien in a sudden jolt as his once detached, spiralling thoughts focused on the task at hand with stunning clarity. He finds he prefers this state of mind, and wonders if the Camarilla lifestyle will facilitate it.

_Snare._ _Sever._ _Burn._ It repeats in his head, ringing out and echoing against the corners of the warehouse. The chanting fills him with anticipation, reminding him of the sensation of heartbeat and adrenaline. It drowns out the wailing blood bond, weaker now from such a long gap between feeds.

Sébastien turns his gaze back to the shadows in the warehouse. He counts the barrels of gunpower, surrounded by large piles of dried timber. This cannot fail. _He_ cannot fail.

* * *

A ghoul runs the distance from the town to Thrysk’s manor, boots slapping against the cobblestone. In between gasps, he asks for the Prince. It’s important.

“And you’re sure it’s them?” She asks, serious expression fixed on her face as he explains what sent him here in such a rush.

“Yes, they had their weapons and sigils, all the things you told me to look for.”

Thrysk nods, looking out the window to Dover.

“Tell our guests that the hunters have made port. If they choose to leave, don’t try and stop them.”

“Yes, Lady Thrysk.”

* * *

Ziener smiles as the harried ghoul tells them the hunters have made port in Dover. Sébastien remembers a night like this one, where the air was thick with tension and the full moon hung low to watch the battle unfold. Ziener's smile is as feral and wide as it was then.

"My prophets." He says to the room, voice grand and ringing against the rafters. "It is time to snare the birds from the sky so we may be free once more."

The other Malkavians howl and cheer as he leads them out of the manor. Before Sébastien can follow them out, a hand sets itself on his shoulder.

"This may be unneeded, but best of luck." Murmurs Thrysk. She releases her grasp on him. Sébastien simply nods before catching up with the pack as they sprint to the sleeping town. The hunters are trained to kill Kindred, they know their weaknesses as well as their prayers. But the night is the Kindred's domain, and they do not take kindly to invaders. 

As fangs emerge and claws itch for mortal blood, Sébastien steels himself for what is to come. The thought of failure makes him ill, so instead he focuses on the cobblestones against his feet and the electric excitement buzzing amongst the coterie as they near the warehouse district. The smell of sea salt and rotting seaweed grows stronger, wooden buildings encircling the pack as they advance. They pour into Dover like a fog, whispers guiding them to the hunters with warnings of danger, telling them to run.

Overhead, a full moon casts its white light onto the town. Sailors call it the traitor's moon - for the light was bright enough to stage a mutiny in the middle of the night. Sébastien looks up at it now, wondering if his own revolt will receive the same blessing.

* * *

Underneath the glow of a flickering streetlamp, a man in a long, leather coat smokes a pipe. He lets out a plume of blue-tinged smoke, eyes never leaving the dark streets that surround him. Instincts honed from his time as a hunter, the man catches a dark shape move along the buildings like a malicious wraith. He loads his crossbow, bolt clicking into place. With a breath in, then slowly out, Brother Amos Bach pulls the trigger.

The dying embers of a vampire illuminates the snarling faces of its comrades as they charge at him. He calls out to his fellow hunters, running to the warehouse district and dodging a lunge from one of the creatures. They land in the water with a splash. This pack of beasts is infamous for their influence on the human mind. More detrimental than other vampires – they could inspire complete madness within Amos if he let his guard down. Drawing upon his Faith, the hunter navigates the dark streets.

Unbeknownst to Amos and Ziener, the ghouls are waiting there. Carefully laid plans directing both factions to Thrysk's warehouse. An upturned cart blocks off one alleyway, a helpful bystander points a group in the right direction. With the efficiency of a herding dog, they subtly corral the hunters and Kindred to their trap.

The dark district does not offer Amos the shelter of lamplight, his mind conjuring enemies in every corner that wait patiently for him to wander too close. In the near distance, he hears a snarling voice bark out orders in Dutch. He turns right suddenly, a gust of air rushing past him. He does not slow, knowing the vampire will tear him to pieces if it could. Or worse, turn him into one of them.

Amos reconvenes with his group in a junction, almost colliding with his commander. They pause a moment, the chaos of the cramped corridors and alleys making it difficult to orientate themselves. The sounds of snarls grow louder, then fade as they pass the hunters. Amos frowns, trying to figure out the direction the vampires’ travel.

“They’re over there, in the warehouse!” Calls a woman in German. The hunters stop in their tracks, following the voice. High on the strength of Faith and adrenaline they advance on the dark building. Amos directs half the group to circle around to the back, while the commander prepares the main force. He can hear rustling inside, snarled conversations.

“What is this deception? The men have become scarecrows.”

“Swine ichor… did I dream of this once?”

“Where is the boy?”

He looks to his comrades. They share a nod before throwing the doors open and bursting inside.

An animal is most dangerous when cornered. This extends to the Kindred as they viciously tear at the hunters with knives, fangs, and claws. A longsword bisects an ancilla. A hunter dies suddenly, life snatched away by the Dementation of a neonate. Blood and vitae drench the ground in the frenzy of a close-quarter, desperate battle.

Very few people, Kine and Kindred alike, see the four figures lurking by the entrances, two to each. A hunter, after cutting down a snarling Malkavian, looks up to see a torch being lit. His eyes meet the ghoul’s, who smirks before lobbing the torch inside. The hunter looks to where the torch is thrown and sees barrels surrounded with kindling. He opens his mouth to warn his comrades, panic rising within. But he’s cut off when another vampire launches itself on top of him, latching its fangs around his throat and tearing upwards.

As he gasps and sputters on his own blood, the hunter watches the torch arc through the air. It lands by the foot of a barrel, hungrily feasting on the dry kindling. The other combatants are alerted to the sudden brightness, but it’s too late. The gunpowder ignites with a series of loud cracks and pops, spraying outwards in a powerful explosion. The hunter closes his eyes, suddenly peaceful. Warmth blooms across his face as the reaper takes his soul.

* * *

* * *

Sébastien cannot help but look on as the fire erupts in brilliant tongues of yellow and red. The warehouse screams with cracking glass and burning flesh. His eyes open wide, reflecting the orange of the inferno as thick smoke clogs the air. Gunshots and shrieks and the sound of splintering wood join in the cacophony.

A body throws itself out the door. More burnt skin than anything else. Sébastien looks at the thing and freezes when he recognises it. No. It can’t be.

Ziener’s writhing body struggles to look up.

“ _Jongen_!” He groans, voice ragged. Parts of him are still on fire. “Help me!”

Sébastien stumbles forward, blood bond moving his legs against his will. As Ziener hacks and spits up vitae, he looks up at Sébastien. The ever-present smirk and smug aura is wiped away as his eyes widen enough to see the whites. Realisation dawns on Ziener with a cloud of fury; the contents of his first vision from all those centuries ago finally coming to pass.

“No.” He whispers in horror. “You did this… _You did this!_ ”

Spittle and vitae spray out his mouth as rage banishes pain. He surges upwards, grappling with Sébastien and forcing him to the ground in a sudden burst of feral strength.

Ziener’s hands are on Sébastien, and choking panic makes him seize. The older Kindred’s palms bracket either side of his face, thumbs gouging into his eyes. Weakly, Sébastien grasps at his wrists, feeling vitae run down his cheeks as Ziener screams unintelligibly at him. When it feels like his eyes are about to burst, a sharp crack pierces through the air and Ziener is thrown off Sébastien.

Blinking away the vitae, Sébastien’s aching eyes focus on a stumbling figure emerging from the fire, rifle in hand. He turns and sees Ziener writhing on the ground, missing a chunk of his left shoulder.

Sébastien takes a breath in and tastes the blood and ash. He feels the vitae in him shriek, an overpowering desire to help Ziener and beg for his forgiveness courses through his veins. He feels his bones demand vengeance. Time drags itself to a standstill as the whispers pause to watch.

The opposing forces clash in Sébastien. Bone versus vitae.

Sébastien feels a sudden surge of anger and clings to it. Thirty years. Thirty years he’s been under that man. The blood bond’s demanding burn is so overpowering it makes Sébastien tremble from the pain, both physical and mental. But the curse of Caine haunts a body furious at the suffering it’s endured for so long. With a shaky exhale, Sébastien steps forward of his own volition.

The bones win.

Sébastien claws a brick out of the street with throbbing, shaking hands. It feels heavier than it is, the strength in his limbs escaping him as he drags himself to Ziener. He nears the weak Kindred, whose eyes are screwed shut in pain. Sébastien kicks Ziener onto his back and straddles his chest. He raises the brick above his head, the burning warehouse casting a hellfire halo around Sébastien’s hair.

_The bones win._

He smashes it down. Again, and again and again. Bone fragments and brain matter and vitae spatter against him. A gurgle limps out of Ziener’s mouth but is silenced as the brick shatters his jaw and crushes all his teeth. His tongue is severed as his fangs snap together. Arms fall limp from where they had been clawing at Sébastien’s face and neck in an attempt to ward him off.

Wide eyes stare up at him: one blue, the other yellow. They’re terrified.

_THE BONES WIN._

[ ](https://beanphomet.tumblr.com/post/637598887356563456/killing-someone-with-a-rock-grandpa-caine-would)

The Childe beats his Sire to death, under that swollen eye of the full moon. White glow catches on his fangs, his mouth stretching open in a shrill roar that rattles the air around him. Specks of blood shine as they catch the moon’s light. The puddle where Ziener’s head was is a glimmering replica of the night sky, until it disappears in a plume of embers and ash with the rest of him.

There is silence, a pause until everything comes crashing down around him.

Sébastien _screams._ The vicious death throes of the blood bond threaten to take him with it. He grasps at his head, fingers tearing out hair as they dig into his scalp. He falls to the ground, curling into a ball. It’s done. _It’s done_.

The screams become sobs as tears of blood run down Sébastien’s face. The whispers tell of lingering threats, congratulations, warnings, encouragements. He’s so tired, so weak. The bond burned as hot as Ziener’s corpse. His arteries feel scarred and fragile. Sébastien was so used to the presence of the bond - so used to the desire, loyalty, and dedication to his Sire, _his abuser, his rapist,_ that its absence is a hollow pit in his brain.

As his consciousness fades, torpor catching his writhing body with careful hands, Sébastien’s blurring vision sees the hunter who had shot Ziener. His form stiff and unyielding against the fiery backdrop.

* * *

* * *

Amos Bach watches the harrowing scene unfold. He didn’t know the vampires could show such emotions. The screams still ring in his ears long after they’d faded from the source. He stares at the cursed beast’s curled body, then at the moon, brilliant in its glow.

All of Amos’ training tells him to kill the Satan’s spawn, to end its reign of terror. But something stays his hand. He casts his gaze to the warehouse; he’d barely escaped with his life. Those comrades who hadn’t escaped by now where probably dead. Amos realises this with a bitter taste in his mouth. A wave of exhaustion hits him; months of dogged pursuit had led up to this final conflict. He’s lost so many Brothers and Sisters; some will never receive a proper burial.

Amos decides, come morning, he will return to Germany. He misses his son.

In the alleyway, as the midnight sky turns red from the fire, a hunter limps away from a vampire without killing it. Through the smog and clouds and smoke, the moon watches on.

* * *

Despite the efforts of the dying blood bond, Sébastien does not awaken in hell. He blinks awake underneath a thick comforter, staring up at a white plaster ceiling. Slowly, aching body and throbbing head protesting at the motion, he sits up.

The room smells of stale air, dust motes dance in the moonlight that peeks in between the shutters. He tenderly makes to stand, staring at the blue carpet as he wobbles uncertainly. The room is filled with dark wood furniture, dust coating the tops of shelves and dressers. 

A basin and sink lay in the corner of the room, mirror hanging on the wall above it. The water is half evaporated out of the basin but is cold against Sébastien's face. He looks up and doesn't recognise the reflection in the mirror.

It matches the memory he has of himself; same nose, ears, and hair. A scar splits his right eyebrow, from when he had been struck by that musket, all those years ago. But there's a hollowness, some quality to him that makes it feel wrong. It seems not just his mind has been warped by the Malkavian bloodline. Or perhaps all Kindred changed.

His eyes used to be brown, he thinks. Sébastien takes one last look at that strange, pale face. Purple lips and dark circles under his eyes, one would think he had fallen ill. He dries his face with a hand towel, turning to the door leading out of this room. 

The bones in his hands ache as he grasps the doorknob, reminder of what has left him. Taking a moment to gather his strength, Sébastien opens the door. The hallway is full of murmurs as Kindred who originally stayed in their rooms, and out of Ziener's way, reemerge.

"Oh! You're awake!" Exclaims a passing Kindred, who did a double-take upon seeing him. "I'll... I'll send for Lady Thrysk." She starts to walk away before stopping. "Uh... Don't go anywhere."

Sébastien blinks, watching the other Kindred walk briskly down the hall. The events of last night, and the nights leading up to it, seep into his waking memory. He's half surprised the Prince didn't leave him out to die. Such is the blessing of Ziener's curse: he doubts she would have extended such generosity if he didn't have something valuable to offer. 

Thrysk nods to Sébastien when he enters her office once more, guided there by a ghoul. 

"I see Ziener didn't take you down with him."

"No. It seems I’ve taken his place in Luna’s favour."

Ophelia looks over Sébastien, her gaze considerate for a minute. At last she nods, pulling out a blank sheet of parchment and dipping her pen.

“Now tell me, neonate, what should I call you?” She asks, writing up what seems to be a letter of some kind.

“ _Jong_ \- no.” He shakes his head in a sharp jerk, frowning. “Sébastien. My name is Sébastien La Croix.” The name feels heavy on his tongue, but not in a painful way like _jongen_ had. It’s the press of a blanket, old and familiar.

“Hm. I’d anglicise it to Sebastian, stops the odd Englishman with a grudge from getting back for the Napoleonic Wars. I’ll have a tutor teach you English. I expect you to pick up Received Pronunciation through your education, as well. And please do try to make sense when you speak. I don’t always have the time to analyse every word that comes out of your mouth.”

Sebastian stifles the twinge of disappointment in his chest. The Ventrue is not Ziener. He doesn’t trust her words, but he trusts the whispers.

“And address me as my title or ma’am. It’s only polite considering the generosity I have shown you.”

"Of course, Lady Thrysk."

"You may leave, ask a servant to show you around. Next evening we'll discuss your residency here. For now I want you to shore up your strength. I imagine undoing such a high level blood bond took much out of you. You were in torpor for a week."

Sebastian's eyes widen by a fraction. 

"Thank you." He says unsure what else to say. The door clicks shut behind him. 

* * *

Like the slow transition from winter to spring, things change. He has a room to himself. It has a lock and key, too. His window overlooks the garden, where roses grow thick and wild. Ophelia hires a manner of cobblers and other textile workers to make him a wardrobe fit for her court. A tailor makes a thick, black coat from wool. It reaches down to the middle of his shins and thick lapels press against his shoulders with a firm weight. In the privacy of his own room, Sebastian shrugs it on and stares at his reflection. He watches himself put his hands in his pockets, feeling the memory of warmth ball up in his palms, against the smooth silk lining. He looks up and notices he’s smiling.

He has visions. For some reason Sebastian had assumed they'd leave with Ziener. But when the flashing images of a cramped mineshaft, gunfire, and a black snake bring him to his knees, Sebastian truly realises the gravity of his actions. By his doing, Sebastian has become the only seer.

_You killed them._

_You killed all of them._

Thrysk walks up to him and hands him a notebook. She tells him to write down what he saw. 

* * *

A Lasombra arrives one evening, pale green eyes bore into him as she reports back to Thrysk. The shadows cling to her coattails like an affectionate cat.

“Ah yes, you haven’t met the newest addition to my coterie. Aurelia, this is Sebastian, a Childe of Ziener.”

“And what’s he doing here instead of running amok in Eastern Europe with that polecat?” Her voice rumbles like thunder, battering against the back of Sebastian’s head.

“You heard of the fire that blazed in Dover last month, yes?”

“Considering your tone, I’m going to assume that was your doing.”

Thrysk gives her a grin, placing a hand on Aurelia’s arm. “We have much to catch up on dear.” She dismisses Sebastian with a nod, he closes the doors to the office behind him.

* * *

There are voices more malicious than others; they tell him awful things he isn't sure are true or not. Often he’s able to ignore it, but the moon is nearly full and the whispers are shouting about the bugs and blood seeping in through the walls. They tell him to tear out all the wallpaper in his room to see for himself. He complies in a sudden flurry of panicked movement.

The Sheriff bursts into his room to find him curled up in the centre, surrounded by torn wallpaper and bare walls. The other Kindred had said they’d heard yelling. 

“Get up.” There’s no response.

He shakes violently as the Lasombra puts a hand on his shoulder. She sighs.

“Fucking Malkavians. I don’t have time for this.”

She shuts the wooden blinds, having been thrown open by the seer before her. Grabbing a handful of wallpaper, the Lasombra locks the door behind her. She tells his neighbours to stay in other rooms until his episode is done, then marches to her Prince’s office.

Ophelia tells her to expect this – Ziener had been just as bad during the full moon.

"Just keep an eye on him, dear, he's more a danger to himself than others."

"Are these visions truly worth the effort of housing this lunatic?"

"Don't be so harsh on the boy, he's still young. I'll teach him what I know in managing these impulses." Ophelia answers, gesturing to the scraps of wallpaper clenched in Aurelia's hand. "I know how potent those visions can be. It will be to our advantage to tolerate him, in exchange for the insight."

Aurelia sighs, nodding to her Prince. She makes plans to contact the mental asylum in Oxford for any straight jackets. There had been vitae running along the walls. 

* * *

There's a piano, in the parlour. Lacquered black wood and real ivory keys. He lingers by it when Ophelia invites him in for a talk or company.

“Do you play?” She asks one night, as he stares at the instrument. 

“I used to.” When he was young, a tutor would come to his family's manor and teach him the theory and scales. Him and his mother would sing _Frère Jacques_ sometimes, her warm hands carefully guiding him through the notes.

“I see. Then I give you permission to take it up again. Just don’t play any bloody Schubert.” 

“Of course, Lady Thrysk.”

Sebastian feels the coolness of the ivory under the pads of his fingers. He won’t play just yet. Someday, perhaps. He has all the time in the world, now.

* * *

**Los Angeles, 2003**

Venture Tower has been a sore sight in LA's coastline for years. It never left the periphery. No matter where in town you went, it loomed over you to remind you who was calling the shots. It looms over Nines now, as he stares up at the hundreds of illuminated windows. Red lights blink above wisps of cloud that come in from the ocean. He frowns at it. He's used to Camarilla assholes thinking they can walk all over the Anarchs, doesn't mean he likes it. The presence of the tower stings more now than ever, in the midst of the Free State's death throes.

Nines walks through the automatic doors, half disappointed there weren't any he could burst through properly. Instead, him and the three Anarchs backing him up step into the ground floor reception area. Faint elevator music plays over the loudspeakers. In the distance, Nines can make out a turning sign with _LaCroix Foundations_ illuminated in cyan neon. He rolls his eyes at it. 

"Oh, uh, good evening folks!" Calls a Minnesotan at the front desk. "What can I do for you guys this fine evening?"

"We're here to see LaCroix." Says Damsel, crossing her arms in front of her.

"Now, this is a large building and I'm gonna need to know what company he works for. Are you looking for Dwayne LaCroix at Insurrection Baby Formula Company or-"

"The one from LaCroix Foundations, dumbass."

"Well hey now, no need to be hostile. I'll have you know I'm chief of security 'round here and I don't take kindly to threats."

"Is that supposed to scare me, you little shit?" Damsel snarls, almost baring her fangs.

Nines steps in between them.

"Listen, guy - "

"Chunk."

"Yeah, sure - what?” Nines shakes his head, composing himself. “Listen... Chunk... my group here won’t leave until we’re let up to LaCroix.” He lets Presence flare, watching Chunk’s eyes widen slightly. “So why don’t you make things easier for yourself and just help us out.”

Chunk blinks rapidly, for a second Nines is concerned he’s alerting the rest of security. Then he clears his throat and presses a button on the counter.

“Alright, I’ll let you up. Penthouse floor.” Chunk murmurs, blush appearing across his face.

The group is quiet as they enter one of the many elevators, but as the doors close and they begin to descend, Nines' three companions burst into laughter. 

“Damn, laying the moves on the chief of security.” Teases Damsel.

“He’s a real catch.” Skelter says, joining in.

Nines rolls his eyes. “Shut up.”

“Absolutely not. I can’t fucking believe that worked.” Damsel says, elbowing him.

“Did you see how much he blushed? It was adorable.” 

“Alright kids, that’s enough, stop bullying Nines." Jack chuckles, slapping a hand onto Nines' shoulder. "He’s gotta be all threatening and lay down the law with our favourite Prince.”

“Well he’s got time. There’s still about twenty floors between us and the penthouse.” Skelter notes, eyes watching the control panel. Damsel's face scrunches up in disgust.

“Jesus. Who needs a tower as big as this?” 

“Guy's probably compensating.” Jack drawls, drawing a laugh from the other three.

The elevator doors slide open to reveal a high-ceiling and polished marble floors. Nines blinks away the sheen that threatens to blind him. Faint orchestral music can be heard playing and the air holds the thick smell of other Kindred. He must be in a meeting, then. Jack whistles.

"Camarilla don't skimp out on the nice offices, huh?" He lights a cigar and blows a puff of smoke to the ceiling. 

"This must cost a fortune just to clean." Remarks Skelter, staring at his reflection in the floor. 

Nines stares ahead at the tall double doors in front of them. Faint talking can be heard within. He rolls his shoulders and moves towards them.

"Let's finally meet this Prince." He mutters, pushing the doors open with both hands. 

The inside looks like the Louvre threw up on it - immense oil paintings line the walls and honest to god _columns_ hold up the high ceiling. Gold filigree adorns every crevice and plane. A rich red rug sits in the centre of the room. Two Chesterfield couches are placed beside a large fireplace.

Nines sees several Kindred standing at the back of the room, where enormous, arched windows overlook LA's glittering cityscape. They all turn to look at the Anarchs, Nines recognises them as LaCroix's primogens; Maximilian Strauss, Therese Voerman, Felicity Gray, Gary Golden, and Ambrose Anhara. 

"What is the meaning of this?" Strauss exclaims, turning to the man standing in front of him. "Did you invite them here?"

Nines walks closer, some of the primogens step away from him, others fix him nasty glares. Gary just looks bored, but he’s no doubt thrilled to have some new drama play out before him. As Nines finally gets a look at the guy he stops.

Mismatched eyes, one blue, the other a spotlight yellow, pin him to the ground. They exude a cold apathy as Prince LaCroix looks over Nines Rodriguez for the first time. His gaze flicks back up to Strauss.

"Unfortunately, I didn't, Strauss." He responds. "But it seems they've let themselves in. I do hope you didn't kill the man at the front desk." He says to the Anarchs, eyebrow raised. 

"Aren't you going to do anything about this? This is an infraction against Camarilla Elysium, the Sheriff should be removing them from the premises." Strauss looks increasingly agitated by the Prince's lack of reaction.

LaCroix looks to Strauss, then to the tall Nagloper standing by the windows, arms crossed. The Sheriff doesn't respond, simply staring at the Anarchs with bright red eyes, but it seems to tell LaCroix something. He turns back to Strauss with a Ventrue-esque smile.

"The Sheriff is capable enough to know when a _real_ threat enters my tower Strauss, you needn't worry." 

The slight stirs up a cloud of irritation and Nines hears Damsel curse at the Prince, his own gaze frozen on LaCroix's deceptively youthful face. 

"I believe the meeting has reached its end tonight," LaCroix announces, looking to the primogens in the room. "You're all dismissed."

The gathered Kindred grumble as they leave, but don't hesitate to remove themselves from the room. Quickly, the office clears, leaving just Nines' group, the Prince, and the Sheriff.

"I'd rather not be interrupted during meetings with my primogens, Anarch. Despite any preconceived notions about Camarilla work ethic, I do have a job to do." LaCroix remarks, watching the doors close.

"Cute, same job where you spit on my people and take LA for the Cammies?" Nines responds flatly, crossing his arms.

LaCroix looks down at Nines with the disconcerting gaze of a taxidermied animal, glass eyes peering sightlessly through him. Something tells Nines they'd be evenly matched in a one on one fight. A snarling polecat lingers underneath that suit, he's almost tempted to see what it takes to bring it out. 

"I am here to bring order to Los Angeles, the Kuei-jin and Sabbat have run rampant in the West Coast, as you no doubt know. The courts in New York decided sending me to reestablish a Camarilla presence in the area was necessary to combat it." The Prince replies.

"We were doing fine until you capes came along and started claiming territory that's rightfully ours."

LaCroix pauses, closing his eyes and letting out a frustrated breath. He looks down at Nines from the top of the raised platform, with Nines standing at the bottom of the stairs.

"As much as I would love to continue this back and forth about our conflicting factions, mister Rodriguez," He says slowly, irritation clear in his tone. "There are simply more important things that demand my attention."

“Can’t say I believe a Camarilla Prince won’t jump at the chance to lord their superiority over some lowly Anarch. I’m not leaving just yet.”

Their glares meet for a tense handful of seconds. 

"Maybe I have yet to make myself clear,” says LaCroix. “I am not here to fight you or the Anarchs. I am not some dusty old Ventrue in New York, bemoaning the good old days. What's in the past will remain there.”

LaCroix steps back, composing himself.

“I am not against working with you and your faction to remove the real threats to the West Coast; the Sabbat and the Keui-jin. But if you're dead set on simply arguing, then leave. Go back to your bar and bitch about the one person doing something about all this. I'll be here, doing my bloody job." 

He finishes his speech, voice brought low in its severity. The Anarchs stand still, watching the Prince with a suspicious and confused air. He turns to the Nagloper behind him and nods.

The Sheriff escorts them out, the elevator ride is cramped and awkward in its silence. The walk back to the Last Round is punctuated by Damsel's indignant ranting, but Nines is too distracted, gaze fixed on the cracked tarmac underneath him. He looks up at the green panelling of the bar and stops.

“You coming in?” Asks Skelter.

Nines looks at the Last Round once more before shaking his head.

“I’ve got a couple things to think about.” And he doubts the Last Round is the best place to do such a thing. “I’ll see you guys tomorrow night.” They say their goodbyes, Nines feels their looks on his back as he walks through Downtown. He hails a cab, mind whirring.

* * *

Nines sits in his haven, nursing a blood pack and listening to the night-time radio. He rolls LaCroix’s words in his head. Anarchs working with the Camarilla isn’t unheard of. The Sabbat have been more vicious too, in recent nights. The Kuei-jin will soon make themselves a larger problem than they already are, now that they have a firm grip of Chinatown. Nines jolts, suddenly, squeezing the pack with enough force to burst it.

“How the fuck did he know my name?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GO CHECK OUT WHAT beanphomet on tumblr drew of the brick scene omg - https://beanphomet.tumblr.com/post/637598887356563456/killing-someone-with-a-rock-grandpa-caine-would  
> thank you so much dude :') it's so good
> 
> thank you for reading 'LaCroix Recreates Genesis 4:8 And Cries' lmao
> 
> forgot to mention in the previous chapter, but the black eagle is the national animal of Germany  
> Abyss Mystic - Lasombra  
> I've decided to make this a recurring theme in my vtmb fics where chunk's entire being and demeanor just confuses tf out of every kindred in LA, they take themselves too seriously and must be humbled by The Chunk  
> so Felicity Gray and Ambrose Anhara are the nameless Toreador and Ventrue primogens you can see ingame, Therese has replaced Grout as primogen in this au
> 
> if you liked this chapter, please do leave a kudo and/or comment! the visions do have meaning in the fic itself, and i wonder if anyone knows what they could signify, one of them was completely fulfilled by the events in this chapter


	3. Hand Outstretched

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She asks me to kill the spider.  
> Instead, I get the most  
> peaceful weapons I can find.  
> \- Mercy, Rudy Fransisco

_The lone wolf snarls down at him from the darkness. Twin snakes entwine themselves around a man who looks afraid, but not for himself. Writhing tentacles rest underneath the golden temple._

_He watches their retreating back and feels an overpowering wave of sadness. There’s nothing Sebastian can do to stop them. He’s alone now._

_Warlocks are rarely pleased, but tonight they are furious. Dark shadows whisper tales of treason. Celluloid dreams dance against the shadow of the Tower. The gaze of the Father catches in the mirror, red pits shining through dark glasses._

_You will never know peace, for this is the path of legends and pariahs._

* * *

**Cape of Good Hope, 1889**

Sebastian La Croix wakes with dried blood on his face. It’s been years since the visions dragged tears from his eyes. Unease settles in Sebastian’s chest as he wets a towel in the basin beside his cot. Damocles’ sword hangs above his head, and he cannot tell when it will fall.

Sebastian wipes the blood away, white cloth staining pink. The water sways with the rocking boat, and Sebastian pauses a moment to listen to it gently lap at the lip of the basin. The distant sounds of Cape Town’s port call out; the caw of seabirds and ringing bells leaking between the boards and into Sebastian’s small room.

Above deck, the sailors rush about the docking process, securing the ship and moving luggage down the gangplank. Whispers coil around the shouted Dutch, English, and German. They tell Sebastian of abandoned gallows and stockades, where the ghosts of murdered slaves linger. 

_Only the bloodiest of diamonds for Vicky._

_Wring her neck. Wring her neck. Wring her neck._

The beast that was the Mineral Revolution had exploded into being, and the Camarilla were running themselves ragged in hopes of getting a stake in the profit. The younger generations were especially vicious, now having the chance to accrue their own wealth after decades of servitude and deference to their elders.

Low ranking Kindred, and ghouls, were assigned to the continent in order to establish Thrysk’s presence there. She would had left it at that, collecting the profits remotely in the safety of her English estate. But the vision of an adder resting as hundreds of diamonds were stolen out from under it, had convinced her to begin overseeing the process in person. It would be foolish to ignore the possibility of being betrayed by an ambitious fledgling.

Aurelia disapproved, of course; telling Thrysk she relies too heavily upon the visions these days. Thrysk had quickly dismissed her Sheriff’s concerns; forty years of service, and the Malkavian had only been of benefit to the Prince of Dover. The moon slips images of flashing knives, rat-tongued allies, and black dahlias into Sebastian's mind. In turn, he halts coups and assassination attempts before they were ever truly a threat. With this security, Thrysk was able to guide Dover into a time of economic growth completely unhindered. Earning the attention of Mithras himself.

Sebastian garnered more than his fair share of rumours: surrounding his Vision, his sudden appearance in Camarilla society, and what happened to his Sire’s coterie. It’s certainly a shame they were all wiped out by the Society of Leopold, who had trapped them in a burning warehouse. Sebastian’s lucky to have escaped in time. 

The Sheriff was less than subtle with her suspicions about Sebastian. It didn’t matter to him what Aurelia thought he was plotting. He was of use to Thrysk still - and would remain so if he played his cards right. And if he was useful, then he was safe. The Camarilla only cares for those with something to offer. The rest are used, discarded, then left for the Sabbat and Anarchs to have their fun with.

Dressing, he joins Thrysk above deck. Her form cuts a sharp, proud figure against the lamplight below, snakehead cane glittering and newly polished. They look out to the port, nestled in night-time, and framed by the Haweqwa mountains. Lamplight glimmers a soft orange as sailors make their way to bars and brothels. Horses snort sand out of their nostrils, and merchants pack away their wares for the evening.

She’d changed into lighter clothing to better suit the warmer climate, despite not being affected by temperature like mortals were. Sebastian chose to continue wearing his thick overcoat. It would seem strange, but he’d rather garner curious stares from passer-by’s than look a fool in shorts.

“Did you see anything before you woke?” Thrysk murmurs to Sebastian, as they walk to the carriage.

“No, ma’am.” He responds, looking out across the water. The vision held nothing of importance to her, that much he could tell.

Most visions relating to the Prince of Dover tended to involve serpents, water, and the colour blue. Imagery of animals and the elements tended to dominate his visions; Sebastian often wonders if it’s the same for other seers. Not that he could ask them.

It should disturb Sebastian, that no other seers had emerged in the years following that night. He should feel some form of guilt for wiping out an entire, unique bloodline just to secure a place in the Camarilla. But the small part of him that whispered such human things had long since withered up and died in the streets of Calais.

Humanity was an unwelcome creature in the unlife, hunted down and stomped out to make room for power and wealth. Sebastian had earned his freedom, his safety. He was damned if he was going to let anyone take it from him.

They load themselves into the carriage, all dark wood and velvet trimming. The black curtains had been rolled back to give them a view of Cape Town as they pass. A rush of excitement chases away the boredom that had burrowed into Sebastian’s spine. Four decades is a long time to stay in one place, especially for a Malkavian who spent his fledgling years running across the European continent.

Even if Thrysk hadn’t have chosen Sebastian for this journey, he doesn’t doubt he would have done anything short of begging to join her. Her Sheriff had been less than pleased at being left behind in England to watch over Thrysk’s Domain, but someone had to remain. Sebastian can’t help but smirk at the memory of Aurelia’s indignant expression when Thrysk told her not to bother packing.

As Sebastian is jostled by the uneven road, cabin jolting from the potholes and horse hooves clopping against the stones, he remembers talk of a strange vehicle emerging in Germany. Apparently it utilised controlled explosions to run of its own volition. He wonders if this _Motorwagen_ will catch on. 

* * *

The moon catches on sand and rocky terrain as they move further inland. It won’t be full for another two weeks. What weak light there is barely manages to outline the foreign cliffs and unfamiliar foliage in that faint white light. Its energy buzzes behind Sebastian’s eyes all the same, the ringing promise of prophecy chiming in his ears. 

They were headed north to the Koffiefontein Mine, one-hundred kilometres south of Kimberley. Glimmering white gems, some the size of Sebastian’s fist, were dug from the bowels of the earth there. Worth hundreds, possibly thousands, of pounds; it was an attractive prospect to any Kindred with ambition. The Prince of Dover was determined to make her profit, by any means necessary. Even if it meant clashing with the local Kindred.

Sebastian only heard piecemeal accounts of the African Kindred, the Laibon. The most contention to the Camarilla invasion came from the Gurubi, who see themselves as the rightful rulers of Africa, and the Xi Dundu, their aggressive rivals. Talk of the Laibon was ripe with rumours and second-hand accounts of their attacks on the Camarilla. Warped to the point that, by the time they reached England, Sebastian couldn’t tell if they were fact, or fiction.

Men being dragged off into the darkness by their shadows, never to be seen again. Entire plantations razed to the ground by monstrous creatures, who take the form of crocodiles, lions, and eagles. Elders being ripped apart by furious, snarling Laibon like they were nothing. Terrified whispers chanted foreign clan names like they were warding off evil; _Ramanga, Osebo, Akunanse, Shango_.

But the most horrific of these tales was reserved for the Naglopers. Fleshcrafters who rivalled the Tzsimisce in both ruthlessness and ability. They would lurk in mines, refineries, and warehouses for weeks, moulding their own flesh to become difficult to detect. People would go missing, only to reappear as monsters of twisted, rotting skin and bone, their faces purposely left untouched.

They would beg for death with what remained of their vocal cords as their bodies pulsed and twitched with misplaced organs and failing muscle. An experienced fleshcrafter could extend their victim’s suffering for months before their organs finally gave out, or infection claimed what little strength they had left. 

Some were moulded into monsters; driven half mad from the pain and pushed over the edge by blood magic. Then unleashed on unwitting workers when the time was right. Enlarged maws, filled with teeth hand-twisted into points, would rip apart their co-workers with little compunction. The frenzy would only end when the monster was put down.

Despite the horrifying details, that should have turned Sebastian’s stomach, he can’t help but admire the precision required of the Discipline; almost like it was an art to master rather than a detestable branch of blood magic.

_Sculptors take many forms. Capable hands, nonetheless._

_No one understands real art these days._

_Down falls the hatchet. Run if you like your head where it is._

* * *

While Koffiefontein was not as famous as its Kimberley counterparts, it was deep, and it was underground. Which allowed for Kindred miners to work away during the night, and ghouls in the day. Thrysk’s claim had been relatively cheap compared to what the De Beers were charging in Kimberley.

Something resembling a town had dragged itself into being – ramshackle shacks, bars, brothels, and saloons taking up the empty space surrounding the mine itself. Thrysk sneers down at the town as they ride through to her estate, further away from the squalor.

“What sad creatures.” She muses, watching the drunk and disorderly file into the taverns after a long day of work, coughing up dust and digging rocks out from under their nails. “This place needs order, Sebastian. Something I intend to establish here.”

_Such is the folly of Blue Bloods_. Whispers the voice of his Sire. _To look at chaos and think order has any place there._

Sebastian hums in acknowledgement, watching the squat buildings melt into the shadows of more wealthy housing. They ride past the iron-wrought gates of Thrysk’s estate, purchased several years ago and slowly built up to her standards. The renaissance style of the building juts out from the environment around it, like someone using a marble column to hold up the roof of a wooden shack. 

Several servants and workers stand lined up in front of the house, waiting for Lady Thrysk to depart from her carriage. An older woman steps forward as Thrysk makes her way down the steps.

“My lady, it’s an honour to finally meet you.” She says, bowed her head. A ghoul, judging by how eagerly she looks at the Ventrue’s exposed skin.

Thrysk nods to the servant, grey eyes flicking over the shorter woman.

“June Crosby, I presume?”

“Yes ma’am. I’m your go-between with the other servants in the estate, if you could follow me, please…”

While not as sprawling as Thrysk’s own back in Dover, Sebastian can see her nod in approval as Crosby leads the two Kindred through a tour of the estate. The house has one less floor than Thrysk Manor; the boards don’t yet creak with age, and the smell of freshly cut timber still wafts through the rooms. The servants were different, too. Their liveliness was a sharp contrast to the servants back in England, made submissive from either the overuse of Dominate, or their dependence on the Kiss’ pleasure.

Sebastian is directed to his own room while Thrysk and Ms Crosby continue on. The servant had given Sebastian a lingering look as they departed; whether it was out of curiosity, or confusion, remains to be seen.

_Drowned her brother in the river, behind their house._

Sebastian shakes the whispers out of his head and looks around the place he’ll call home for the foreseeable future. His suitcase had been dragged up along with the rest of the luggage and sat beside the door. Sebastian heaves his bag onto the bed, linens rustling against the leather.

He’d only brought two changes of clothes, his police sabre, and his notebook – which held scribbled accounts of his visions since entering Thrysk’s court. There’d been little need to bring any more. While Thrysk had done her best in schooling him on etiquette and trying to encourage a taste for the finer things in life; his years under Ziener’s harsh rule had ingrained a distaste for needless frivolities.

He flips through the notebook's pages absentmindedly, feeling the texture of the paper and the divots in the pages where he’d pressed too hard with his pen. The writing deteriorates and improves in cycles; becoming more harried and illegible closer to the full moon, then growing readable once again as it wanes. 

He traces his fingers over scratchy drawings of a man’s decapitated head. His hair is short, and a goatee surrounds a gaping mouth. A necklace with a round pendant encircles the bleeding stump of his neck, and his eyes had been gouged out. Thick ink blots seep out from his mouth, eyes, and neck - where dripping blood should be.

During the height of the last full moon, this had been the only image the visions gave him. The desperate need to do something had filled Sebastian with a writhing, wormlike anxiety. He’d drawn this image across every bare surface in his room before Aurelia could restrain him.

He doesn’t understand its importance. Not just yet.

* * *

Koffiefontein Mine is a deep series of tunnels, running in tandem with the veins of kimberlite. A battery of gunpowder explosions would drive the diamond ore into the opposite mineshaft, then collected by the workers for extraction and refinement.

It was far more expensive than open-pit mining, something that seemed to weigh heavily on Thrysk's mind as she looked over the finances in her new office. From what Seabstian had been able to glean, the Koffiefontein mines may not be as profitable as its counterparts in Kimberley. Considering how much Thrysk had invested already, this was a potential financial disaster. 

Some days she leaves Sebastian to his own devices, where he wanders the town and manor mindlessly. Hunting when needed, and listening in on the occasional conversation under the veil of Obfuscate. While there was no little amount of grumbling regarding the conditions they had to work in. That was to be expected of any workplace. But the miners should be grateful Thrysk hadn’t decided to force complicity from them through Dominate – though that method would be too forceful for the Ventrue’s _civilised sensibilities_.

Other nights, though, she keeps him tightly at her side. Eagerly waiting for him to grimace and tense as a vision takes him from reality. He stands beside her desk for hours, listening to her dark muttering as pen jabs at paper.

Even the whispers have nothing interesting to tell him. The supervisor overindulges in his drink more often than not, but that's nothing particularly interesting. The nurse and the cook are fucking, but everyone knows that. Thrysk is becoming more tense and agitated with each passing day, but Sebastian doesn’t need the moon-crazed blessing of Malkav to see it.

Crosby occasionally pokes her head into the office, looking curiously at Sebastian while attempting to get a word in, before Thrysk beats her out of the room with a few barbed words and heavy glare.

Sebastian is an anomaly to the workers. To them, he is Thrysk’s strange, young shadow who talks to hardly anyone else but the Prince. The man with patchwork eyes who spouts riddles of the future. Some think him her son; others still, her lover. Sebastian scoffs at the thought of either. The mortals and Kindred lower than him can think what they want, so long as they leave his door locked during the full moon.

In more recent days, as the weeks drag on and tensions surrounding the lacking profits rise, Thrysk makes increasingly numerous trips down the mines themselves. She oversees the process with a sharp, grey gaze. Watchful of any light fingers filching whatever ore could be hidden in pockets, detracting from her own profits.

On one occasion, she says she catches a worker slip a piece of unrefined kimberlite into the seam of his trousers, and has him flogged to serve an example to the other miners.

Sebastian never saw anything.

* * *

Tonight, an empty moon hangs in the sky, filling Sebastian’s head with an _absence_. He's been a Malkavian for long enough to know it as an omen. Thrysk thrums her fingers against her desk, growing more agitated as she listens to the mine supervisor explain why there'd been such a sudden drop in productivity in recent days:

Miners had been going missing; where the pits of the mine were deepest, and the air hung thick and toxic. Those who remained reported hearing screams echoing down stone corridors, accompanied by wet cracking sounds. Footsteps - but no body to attribute them to, heavy breathing right beside their ears. The shadows had grown a body and was using it to torment the workers.

The miners were refusing to work where those ten men had gone missing, for fear they’ll meet the same fate. Sebastian watches Thrysk’s grim expression as the supervisor talks in awkward, repetitive sentences. Her mouth cracks open to interrupt, her fangs flashing just slightly - the only indicator of her anger.

"Which mineshaft is this in." Her voice is low and dangerous as it rumbles through the room. Her patience is wearing thin.

The supervisor pauses, mouth open in mid-word. 

"The-the northern one, lowest levels." 

Thrysk nods slowly, peering over her steepled hands at the desk. She turns to Sebastian.

"Get your sword."

Sebastian nods and leaves the room as the supervisor sputters.

“Lady Thrysk. What – what exactly are you going to do?”

"We have a pest issue, mister Calloway. I intend to remove it tonight." Her voice is the slow, metallic sound of a sword being unsheathed.

The Ventrue clan has only recently transitioned from the battlefield of war, to that of business. Those Blue Bloods never truly got rid of their weapons, they simply hid them away for safe keeping. Thrysk grabs her cane from where it rests beside her. The snakehead's glimmering, onyx eyes flash white and blue in the light.

She looks up and nods at Sebastian as he re-enters, tying his scabbard to his belt. Her grey gaze flicks back to the supervisor.

"Take us to where the miners went missing. Bring and arm other men to aid us, but be quick. Time is of the essence."

* * *

So far below the surface, the darkness has become a viscous fluid. It claws along the rocks as the lamplight illuminates glittering quartz, feldspar, and kimberlite. Rusted joints creak and shudder from the collective weight of all fifteen people as the elevator descends down the dark, cramped mineshaft. The recruited workers murmur amongst themselves, clutching pickaxes and rifles with sweaty hands. Sebastian wrinkles his nose: their pores reek of fear. 

_Sour smell above. Sour smell below._

_Corpses. All of them._

_You shouldn't be here. You know that._

The whispers grow in volume, a strained cacophony that clamours in his skull, eager to speak and demanding to be heard. "Have you heard or seen anything?" He hears Thrysk ask.

_The bats are hungry._

_Here there be Horrors._

"Sebastian?" 

_Demons rest here._

_Death's robe rustles. The scythe is raised._

The elevator shudders to a halt, gears squealing as they force the platform to stop. Silence rings out before him. The voices have said their part. Now they watch.

The shadows are beaten back from the rock and dirt by a single, flickering lamp. It was placed there, in the middle of the hallway. Whoever is down here, they've been waiting.

**_Die._ **

"Be ready for a fight." Is Sebastian's only response.

Sebastian’s human comrades hold their breaths in anticipation. Wood groans as they grip their weapons tighter. He knows this feeling all too well, the adrenaline rush before a fight. Sebastian unsheathes his sword and steps off the elevator. 

Thrysk moves to the front, cane in one hand. She pulls at the snakehead. A thin, silver rapier makes its hushed entrance, metal catching the lamp’s light in flashes.

“Show yourself.” She demands. “We know you’re there, Laibon.”

The workers make strained objections but wisely quiet themselves before Thrysk can hear it. Their attention is fixed on the dark hallway. Something catches the lamplight’s glow. A pair of pinpricks flashing in the blackness. Sebastian tenses, hearing the sound of claws scraping against stone.

Animalistic grunts rattle down the hallway. It grows louder with the footsteps, and more numerous. The mine falls quiet. Leather groans as Sebastian tightens his grip.

A harsh snarl rips through the silence as a bipedal monster of ragged flesh launches itself from the shadows. Dozens sprint from the darkness, and the fight breaks out within seconds. The mineshaft fills with the sound of screams, breaking bone, and the rip of metal through twisted skin. In the very back, as the chaos of the minions demands their full attention, a pack of large Kindred peel themselves from the darkness, red eyes surveying the fight with little emotion.

Sebastian knocks back one of the creatures as it lunges at his head, twisting and stabbing downwards to kill another monster before bites his leg off. Hot embers and vitae spatter against his face as the creature explodes with a shrill cry. He bears his fangs, bisecting another of the monsters with a broad swipe of his sabre. All those hours forced to train with Aurelia finally being put to use.

The dying shrieks of the final monsters hit at the walls of the mine, stained red from spilled blood and vitae. Haggard breathing of the human workers wheezes against the stone: the quick, frantic beats of a rabbit’s heart against its ribcage. The ground is carpeted with gore and blood. One of the workers had been disembowelled, the tubes of his short intestine made a tripping hazard. Sebastian steps over it as he walks towards the lantern, left untouched during the fight. Blood and vitae glisten around it, yellow light flickering against grey rock.

The metal groans as he picks up the lantern by its rusted handle, casting the light down the corridor. The fight isn’t over yet. There’s a presence of something pressing into the space behind Sebastian’s eyes. The last time Sebastian felt the gaze of an unseeable predator, he’d had his throat slit.

_Behind you._

Sebastian turns just in time to see the flash of red eyes as the Naglopers descend upon them.

The spark of gunfire and metal grinding against metal illuminates snarls and bared fangs. The fight is messy and vicious, as all close-quarter combat tends to be among Kindred. Sebastian is no stranger to it, but the sheer ferocity and strength of these Naglopers is almost as intimidating as their physical appearance. Thick claws, imposing figures, and powerful, corded muscle that could have only been possible through the use of Vicissitude.

Sebastian ducks, feeling the whoosh of displaced air over his face, as the blade sails where his head was mere seconds ago. He watches the longest strands of his hair be severed as the blade swings above him. He twists and strikes upwards with his sabre, the Nagloper’s dark red eyes widening as he rears back. He brings the curved blade of his Akrafena down in a massive, overhead swipe. The bones in Sebastian's arm rattle as he blocks the hit, metal denting where the blades meet.

Old memories of fights with countless other Kine and Kindred come to life in Sebastian's actions as he trades blows with the attacker. They lock weapons, Nagloper looming over him, baring his impressive fangs. Sebastian returns the snarl with his own. Red meets yellow and blue, both gazes wild with their strange bloodlines. Seer meets Horror, and their battle is vicious.

The Nagloper may be big, but Sebastian fights dirty. He kicks the man in the groin twice, and as he doubles over, cuts through both Achilles tendons in one devastating swing. The Nagloper doesn’t even grunt, simply laying on the ground with severed heel cords bunched up under the skin of his calves. He waits for when his body has healed before attempting to draw them back together with Vicissitude. 

Sebastian doesn’t look back at the defeated Laibon, choosing to aid Thrysk as she parries the blows of two Naglopers, the faint green shield of Fortitude glimmering around her body. Sebastian almost trips on the minced remains of a worker who had met a grisly end to one of the Naglopers’ blades.

It’s only when the combined efforts of seven combatants manage to weaken one of the Naglopers, forcing her to her knees, does the tide of the battle shift. The other Laibon freeze as their compatriot’s head is severed from her neck, blackened skull wreathed in embers as it sails through the air.

The Nagloper’s dying screams chase the rest into the bowels of the mineshaft. Sebastian wonders if she was their leader, considering something akin to shock had rippled across their impassive faces. He wipes the viscera off his sabre on the pantleg of a downed worker before sheathing it. Thrysk is taking stock of the scene around her, issuing orders to dispose of the bodies so that the Naglopers are left with nothing to work with.

“Seal this mineshaft, I want two Kindred guards posted here during the night. No one enters, no one leaves.” She turns to the seer. “Do you sense their auras, Sebastian?”

He shakes his head. “They’ve fled further than I can see," not that he could - Ziener’s bloodline didn’t have Auspex. "I think the Laibon you killed was important enough for them to need to retreat.”

Thrysk nods, running her thumb over the snakehead handle of her cane in thought.

“And this one? Why did you leave him alive?” She says, gesturing to the Nagloper Sebastian had downed earlier, who was now surrounded by armed workers. Two pickaxes had been driven through his legs to pin him to the ground.

Sebastian shrugs.

“Ash doesn’t speak, ma’am.” 

Thrysk nods to Sebastian before stepping closer to the Nagloper, who glares up at her.

“Do you understand me?” She says, slowly and clearly. The prisoner is silent, glaring up at her impassively. Sebastian wonders if the Naglopers chose to appear emotionless, or if it’s a by-product of self-Vicissitude.

His eyes, even the sclera, are a deep red, and his hair is ghostly white. His face is strangely shaped; a heavy brow and high, protruding cheekbones; a long space between his lips and nose. The man looks animalistic, like he’d shaped his face to appear like…

The prisoner suddenly jerks forward spitting a glob of vitae at Thrysk’s face. Her skin begins to smoke and Thrysk snarls as the acidic vitae chews a hole in her cheek. Fortitude flares up, combating the burn.

Her grey eyes flash in rage as she unsheathes her sword, drawing it back to pierce his skull.

“Insolent beast.” She spits, fangs bared and brilliant in the low light. The hissing of her own skin rattles against the rafters as Presence slams into the surrounding onlookers. Sebastian flinches as he feels its iron barbs whip across his face.

The Nagloper drags himself back, hands raised up in a silent beg for mercy. _He has the face of a bat_. Sebastian tenses and jolts forward as Thrysk jabs down.

“Stop!” Sebastian shouts, throwing himself between Thrysk and the Laibon, hand outstretched.

Thrysk’s blade pierces between the bones of his palm and drives through even further, pinning his hand to his shoulder. The force of the blade only stops when he hits the wall, metal ringing as it collides with the rock from where it emerged out his back. 

Sebastian grits his teeth against the pain and foreign feeling of metal grinding against his bones. He’ll have to get someone to repair his coat – Thrysk had pierced through the fabric. Someone gasps in the crowd, Thrysk’s eyes flick to the side as the workers murmur amongst themselves.

“Sebastian.” She starts voice dark and eyes burning. “What is the meaning of this.” The smoke from her burning face wisps into the shadows above.

“The Laibon will be of great use if we keep him alive.” Sebastian responds tensely. He winces as the blade twists in her grasp. “I saw it, ma’am. If I’d have realised it sooner, I would have told you.” He adds the last part on hurriedly, the vision of a bat-faced man begging for mercy flashing before his eyes.

There’s a strained silence as Thrysk looks down at Sebastian, gaze moving between him and the Nagloper. Sebastian’s hand twitches against his chest, pinned there by the blade. Vitae trickles down his palm and he can feel his skin healing around the sword.

A painful handful of moments pass before Thrysk hums, then drags the sword out of Sebastian’s shoulder.

“You have yet to fail me, La Croix. I suggest it stays that way.”

“Of course, ma’am.”

“Take the Laibon to the doctor, see if he speaks English and get what you can out of him. Send him with the rest of the miners when he’s strong enough to work.”

Sebastian nods, grabbing the wooden shaft of a pickaxe that had broken off during the fight. The splintered end where it had broken came to a point. He kneels down to the prisoner.

“I do not know if you understand me,” he whispers to the Laibon’s hanging head. “But if you wish to survive, do exactly as I say.” Then he sinks the stake into his heart.

It took the combined efforts of four men to carry the Nagloper to the clinic, one to each massive limb. The other workers give them a large berth, peering at the Laibon with open disgust and curiosity. With a coordinated heave, they manage to raise the prisoner up and on the doctor’s slab. It groans under his weight.

The Gangrel doctor’s retainers take guard as they begin to work on the Nagloper. Sebastian makes his way back to the manor, where Thrysk was no doubt working. The manor is drawn in on itself, shadows darker and the lights more dim. He could taste the tension as it settled on his tongue.

Crosby catches his gaze as he walks to Thrysk’s office, her eyes widen and she looks down immediately. But Sebastian had caught the redness in her eyes, how her hands are clenched in tight fists. Her shoulders are a taut bowstring ready to snap. Thrysk mustn’t be happy if she’d taken to lashing out at the help.

The office is darker than usual, scones sits unlit along the walls and large stacks of documents pile on and around Thrysk's desk. She had yet to change out of the clothes she wore down the mines. Dark spatters stain her sleeves, and a shiny scab sits where the acidic vitae had burned a hole in her cheek. Thrysk barely looks up from where she'd been glaring at a piece of parchment. 

"I assume the Nagloper is in the medic's custody." 

"Yes, ma'am. He should recover within the next few days."

"Good. I need the workers." Thrysk mutters. She sets the parchment down and looks up at Sebastian. "I'm sending you to work down there as well. Seventeen workers were killed by the Laibon, and fresh recruits won't come in soon enough."

Sebastian frowns, head jerking back in surprise.

“What? That’s not what I’m here for-“

“You are my subordinate, and you will follow my orders." Thrysk interrupts, tone steely. "I needed you for your sight, and now I need you for your hands.”

“But Thrysk, surely you can see that this is a lost cause. Why don’t we cut our losses and liquidate what finances there are, I - “

“ _Be quiet_.” She snarls suddenly, eyes flaring cyan.

Sebastian feels his mouth click shut as the spiked band of Dominate clamps down on his thoughts.

"We? Our? _I_ am of better blood and lower generation than _you_ , lunatic. You are not my equal. You will work because I told you to work. You are only here because of me. If it hadn't been for my generosity, you would still be a plaything of Ziener." She sneers. "Never forget the debt you owe me, seer."

Even without Dominate, Sebastian would have stayed quiet. In all the years he'd worked for the woman, never once had Thrysk lost her temper before. Even if it isn't, this feels like a betrayal.

“Understand that we are not leaving until I am satisfied with my profits. For however long that takes.” Thrysk waves her hand, looking down at her papers now. “Now leave. Your work starts tomorrow. Do not try to shirk these duties; you know the consequences for refusing a direct order from your Prince.” 

He almost crumples when Dominate’s hold on him fades. Sebastian nods numbly and opens the door to the office with a shaking hand. He barely makes it into his room before collapsing to the ground.

Sebastian clamps a hand over his mouth before he screams, biting into the meat of his thumb. He squeezes his eyes shut as waves of panic throttle his atrophied organs. If he had breath, it would be stolen. If he had a heartbeat, it would be racing. But Sebastian is a corpse that's haunted by what's left of his soul; his body remains still as his mind screeches on.

_How dare she._ The fact that Thrysk had used Dominate to control him. Like how Ziener had with their blood bond... Memories he'd shoved into the dark corners of his mind come clawing back to the light, and Sebastian feels phantom hands pressing into his skin. _How dare she._

Sebastian curls in on himself, pushing against those roiling emotions. It was unbefitting of a Kindred to act like this, but he doesn’t know how to stop the ghost of Ziener from making a thunderstorm of his nerves.

He forces his shoulders to relax, taking in a superficial breath: feeling the panic crest as he inhales the humid air, letting his rage and pain settle with the exhale. The humiliation of being reduced to this state coats his organs like a thick film of pitch. He refuses to let Thrysk have the satisfaction of seeing him in this state. Finally, Sebastian lets go of his hand. His jaw aches from how hard he had been biting down.

He stares at the bite mark, watches with a feeling of detachment as vitae pools in the gashes. The apathy sparks a white-hot rage under his diaphragm. Sebastian slowly clenches his fist, vitae running down his thumb and dripping off his palm. He lets the anger bring clarity to his thoughts.

Thrysk is no longer safe. He didn’t learn, so now history repeats itself. The wheel turns.

No. Not if he has anything to do about it. He refuses to become another tool for someone else’s gain. Sebastian stands, contemplating the sledgehammer with which he’ll break it. La Croix had said the Laibon would be of great benefit. He never said to who.

* * *

The next evening, Sebastian walks to the clinic. He'd left his coat in his room, the thing would be destroyed in the mines. His exposed skin prickles as humid air brushes against it. The clinic is quiet, all other patients had been moved to the barracks to rest safely away from the Nagloper. Sebastian nods to the guards as he enters the room. The Nagloper is still paralysed from the stake in his chest, the doctor having worked around it.

Sebastian pauses by the door, grinding his teeth and steeling himself before striding towards the Laibon. He pulls the stake out with one, swift yank.

Almost immediately, this massive body surges forward. Medical equipment clatters to the floor and a glass vial shatters as the Laibon grabs Sebastian by the neck and slams him against the wall. Sebastian's hands instinctively fly up to grab at the thick wrist. The Nagloper's burning gaze sears his face. The man is, understandably, pissed.

"You- you don't want to do that." Sebastian croaks, feeling his oesophagus grind against his vertebrae. The Nagloper rumbles out a growl, grip tightening. "If you kill me, you'll die too. Your pack... will be left to rot... in the mines." 

The Nagloper freezes and a fraction of the pressure is relieved from Sebastian's neck.

"Thrysk intends for you to work. Then kill you. Work with me. We get rid of her. Your people are left unscathed. You live.” Sebastian tries to take out the desperate edge in his voice – which was difficult considering the dizzying grip the Laibon had on his throat.

It's a painful moment as the prisoner's red gaze pries into his skull, the thick presence of Auspex digging into the soft skin surrounding his eyes. Sebastian can feel the confusion and anger in the twitches of his claws. Before his spine can be ground to dust, Sebastian falls to the floor as the Laibon releases his grip. He doesn't gasp and sputter like a mortal, simply rubbing at his throat and looking up at the Laibon.

"Did you get that out of your system? Because I need someone who can keep a level head." He croaks. The Laibon huffs from his nose, crossing his arms.

"We can figure it out as we work." The Nagloper frowns. "You didn't hear? Congratulations on your recent employment, we're both starting today." Sebastian sneers, letting the bitterness seep into his voice. He stands, dusting himself off.

"Let's get on with it, then. No point in drawing attention to ourselves by being late."

It's loud, it's warm, and it stinks of sweat and explosives. As much as Sebastian has grown a tolerance for unpleasantness, the conditions only spur on his scheming as the whispers hum along to the clamorous clanging of pickaxe against stone.

They find a rhythm, working in tandem as they collect the raw kimberlite ore, laden with small, unrefined diamonds. Sebastian does all of the talking, but the Nagloper seems to listen. If he's observant enough, Sebastian can pick out the minute expressions that flicker across the Laibon's face as he talks. 

"And we could always use gunpowder to collapse the shafts."

"..."

"Ah, yes, the pack. I guess that wouldn't be the best course of action. Do you have any ground-breaking suggestions, or shall I continue?"

"..."

"Right." 

* * *

“Ms Crosby.” Sebastian had stumbled back from the mines with aching blisters that would be gone by morning. He immediately began looking for the head servant, finding her walking down one of the many corridors in the manor.

“Oh, mister La Croix, what can I do for you?” She asks, turning around and nodding cordially at the Malkavian. Her gaze flicks from one eye to the next, as they always did when he and her spoke.

“Let’s talk somewhere more private. You never know who the walls are aligned with.”

Crosby frowns but follows anyways.

_Knife in the back pocket._

Sebastian shuts the door behind them, letting the door latch. He turns to the head servant.

“Thrysk has been in power too long, don’t you think?”

“Mister La Croix, what are you talking about?”

“I’m just saying it would certainly be a shame for the tyrant to suffer a tragic accident in the mines. Those shafts go down for miles, and there are very few guard rails.”

Sebastian sees Crosby’s hand shift to hover over her back pocket. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, La Croix, but I won’t be complicit in murder.” 

He draws back his shoulders, holding up both palms.

"You don't have to do anything Crosby. I need you to stand to the side and what happens, happen. Whatever you do, the rest of the staff will follow. They respect you more than Thrysk."

Sebastian looks at her face, the servant is unconvinced. Betrayal stews in her mind. He knows how to stamp it out. Sebastian straightens, peering down at June with his mismatched eyes.

"I know what happened to your brother."

Her face twists up in shock, hackles rising.

"What-" Crosby tries to take a step back but hits the wall instead. Sebastian comes closer. 

"You've kept it unknown for so long. It can stay unknown if you just step back." Sebastian leans closer to Crosby, voice soft. "Can you do this for me, Ms Crosby?" 

She glares up at Sebastian before schooling her expression, lips screwing up. Her fists clench, before relaxing. She frowns, remembering all the verbal abuse she’s endured from the Ventrue. This is not worth her own neck. Her shoulders sag, the fight dissipating out of her. 

"... I can." She mutters, looking down at the floor.

Sebastian nods. "Good." 

He leaves the room, letting Crosby stew in her own decision.

The miners are much easier to convince – stand to the side and don’t get in his way, and they can leave with all the kimberlite they can carry. 

He knows from his time in Ziener’s coterie that the mob mentality is his strongest weapon against Thrysk. So if the workers do nothing, if they look away and shield their eyes, then it will just be him and the Nagloper against Thrysk. This would have been impossible if Thrysk had brought other allies, but the decades of security from Sebastian’s Vision had made her complacent. She must think his claws gone and fangs blunted, to have underestimated him like this.

The Prince of Dover had orchestrated the death the original Seer, but her actions had also nurtured his more vicious Childe. Where Ziener was a crushing mallet, Sebastian is a sharpened guillotine blade. 

* * *

The full moon hangs over the manor, white paint shining under its glow. Ophelia had drawn back her curtain to let in the light. She frowns over the increasingly aggressive letters from those she’d borrowed funds from. They were expecting repayment, but she had only half of what was expected. The diamond quality from the mines wasn’t as high as she’d been hoping. She’ll be a laughingstock in England – the Prince who bet too much on something she knew too little about, like some overeager neonate.

A sharp knock to her door jolts Ophelia out of her thoughts.

“Enter.”

Sebastiam bursts in, one of the doors rattling in its hinges as it slams into the walls. Before Ophelia can reprimand the seer, he speaks.

“Thrysk- ma’am. It’s the Naglopers. They’ve climbed the mineshaft and they’re attacking the workers.” He almost sounds out of breath, despite not needing to breathe. Chills tremor down Ophelia's spine as she stands. Papers scatter, drifting down to the ground.

“Get your sword. We’re not letting those creatures kill any more of my assets.” She refuses to lose any more money because of the _Laibon_.

They run to the mine. In their rush, Ophelia doesn’t notice how all the servants were either absent, or turned away from the two Kindred. She doesn’t see Crosby watch them leave, jaw clenched.

The mine is unnervingly silent, if Ophelia were younger she may have been concerned about the slaughter that had just transpired. She just feels that everpresent hollowness that had taken root in her chest since her third century of unlife. Humanity waxes and wanes in all Kindred, but it became more difficult to grasp as one lives longer than they were supposed to. Immortality was a poison on the soul, and Ophelia was full of it.

Her nostrils flare, trying to catch the scent of blood and the sharp tang of blood magic. But as she enters the elevator to descend into the mine, Ophelia senses nothing. Frowning, she looks over to Sebastian. His face is smudged with dust and grime, but she doesn't see any injuries, healing or otherwise. 

"When did they attack?" She asks, breaking the tense silence that was punctuated with the grinding elevator machinery.

"Just a few moments ago." Replies the seer. "I'd just barely got out before they could grab me."

She peers at Sebastian out the corner of her eye, his jaw is tense. She sees no blood on his hands, no rips in his clothing. She takes a minute step back, so Sebastian would be the first to get off the elevator when they finished descending.

The doors open, and Ophelia tenses as she sees the miners are all in one piece. Their eyes are covered with scraps of fabric and handkerchiefs. The Laibon stands at the end of the hallway, imposing figure filling out most of the empty space. His red eyes give off a dull glow in the dim light.

"What is this. Sebastian, what is the meaning of this." Ophelia's voice sounds frantic, even to her.

He turns to her, looking at Ophelia with Ziener's eyes.

"I think you know." He replies.

Ophelia surges forward on instinct. She hooks an arm around Sebastian's neck, using her free hand to get a firm grip in his hair. One strong wrench and he would be ash.

"Do not come any closer, beast." She snarls at the Laibon, who pauses, looking down at Sebastian. 

Ophelia opens her mouth to begin talking, when she feels the mental attack of Dementation assault her senses. Sebastian kicks hard at her bad leg as she recoils from the Discipline. Ophelia feels Sebastian yank himself out of her grasp, she rears back and draws her sword from her cane. The silver blade catches the yellow lights above. 

Sebastian draws his own sabre and charges forward. Ophelia barely has a second to blink the piercing jabs of pain out of her eyes before parrying Sebastian's strike. She is an Elder, how dare the bastard betray his better. Ophelia feels the spiralling energy of Dominate build up behind her eyes as she waits for Sebastian to look up. 

Her vision goes dark, thick hands encircling her head. Ophelia instinctively calls upon Fortitude to stop the Laibon from crushing her skull. She's forced to the left, the forward.

"Where are you taking me, you fucking rat. Unhand me." She snarls, uncaring at how shrill her voice sounds. Something akin to panic builds up in her chest as they continue moving.

"You've driven yourself mad with this obsession for the diamonds." Sebastian announces, off to her right. "I would have tolerated it, if you hadn't have crossed me, Thrysk." 

With a jolt, Ophelia remembers using Dominate on Sebastian. It had been almost instinctual, a result of the stress from the events leading up to that moment. It hadn't been entirely on purpose - she'd just wanted him to be quiet. Malkavians didn't make grudges often, but they cling to the few they have with a near Old Testament zeal. _Shit._

She opens her mouth to talk her way out of this, with Presence, with anything, but then Ophelia's feet are kicking at thin air. She's being dangled over the mineshaft by the grip on her head. She desperately swipes at the Laibon's arms, but the skin is too thick and the blade bounces off of it. 

"Stop! No! Seba-"

Ophelia's head is released and she is _falling_. She doesn't know for how long, but the darkness swallows her like a ravenous beast; starved of true fear for so many years. 

She feels her ribcage buckle, and pelvis shatter when she hits the ground. Her left arm is twisted behind her back and Thrysk feels the spikes of her spine grinds against the rock beneath. She would be dead were she mortal. Instead, she's a beetle pinned to the corkboard. A light is shone on her for a brief second, before she's doused in the darkness once more. Ophelia hears the grinding and shuddering of the old elevator as it descends. 

"So you're still in one piece." The voice of Sebastian crawls down the mineshaft and into her ear. "I wonder if the Naglopers prefer complete subjects."

With her shattered jaw, Ophelia hisses out curses older than the whelp himself. She forces her head to move, looking up at the elevator where it hangs several meters above the ground. The red-eyed glare of the brute is nothing compared to Sebastian’s stare. Yellow and blue. It's always those fucking colours. She should have let the boy burn up in the morning sun after he'd killed Ziener. She didn't, thinking the visions were worth all the effort. He should have been _less_ than Ziener; a generation younger and centuries less experienced. 

Yet here he was, looking down at her with the apathetic gaze of a predator who's decided she isn't worth the effort of putting out of her misery.

They are last thing Ophelia Thrysk sees before the lamp is extinguished, drowning her in darkness. She hears rasping claws pad over the stone floor. Dim red eyes stare through the darkness, burning a hole in Ophelia's head as she feels multiple clawed hands grab at her.

Her screams rattle through the mineshaft for hours after. And then the mine falls quiet once more.

* * *

It's quiet, the nights after the coup. Sebastian is preparing, more than he is anything else. Preparing for if Aurelia finds out what happened and travels to Koffiefontein to kill him herself. Preparing for what happens next. Seventy years and Sebastian has been under the command of another older, stronger Kindred. The newfound independence thrills him, but Sebastian knows he can't return to Europe, or else the Lasombra will find him. He's heard America has become a popular destination in recent years.

The Nagloper had been Sebastian's shadow as he worked on liquidating Thrysk's South African assets, and paying off the employees. That silent gaze boring a hole in the back of Sebastian's skull, reminding him of their deal.

They send the elevator down, doors open and lamps running. After two days of nothing, the slow grinding of the old gears fills the emptied mineshaft. Sebastian and the Laibon are outside when panicked shouts alert them to the new presences. Sebastian almost jumps out of skin skin to see a pack of seven-foot-tall Kindred looming over him, but they have yet to rip his throat out and turn him into a vozhd. Their stares leave him after a tense handful of seconds, ultimately deciding he either wasn't a threat, or wasn't worth the vitae to kill.

The other Naglopers look over to the Laibon standing beside him. Sebastian sees the resemblance in their warped, bat-like faces. The Laibon shakes his head slowly, and Sebastian sees the shoulders of one of them sag at the realisation that their freedom came at a price.

One of them peers back down at Sebastian. He returns the stare, grown used to the silent gaze of the Nagloper bloodline. They step forward and pull something from the folds of their clothes. Sebastian jerks back, but freezes when he sees what's in their large hand.

It's Thrysk's cane. It had been broken in half, the sword removed. What remained of the snakehead was dented and tarnished, one of the onyx eyes as missing and a fang had snapped off. But it was unmistakably Thrysk's. Sebastian's eyes flick up to the Nagloper, who stares down impassively at him. He reaches out and takes it, nodding his thanks.

Without a word, the Naglopers turn and begin running out into the desert. Away from the mines they'd been trapped in for weeks. Away from the blemish of Camarilla handiwork.

Sebastian waits until the Naglopers disappear behind a distant sand dune, bracketed by ruddy cliffs, before speaking.

“Do not forget the debt you owe me.” He says softly.

The Nagloper pauses and sneers down at Sebastian. But Sebastian stares up with an intense gaze, letting the chittering call of Dementation ready itself. Their eyes lock in a staring match. Red, and yellow and blue bleed out into the night’s darkness around them.

The Nagloper huffs a long sigh out his nose. He crosses his arms, and nods slowly in deference to the smaller Malkavian, who nods back.

Sebastian knows the typical Camarilla course of action would be to ensure the Laibon’s loyalty through a blood bond. And yet, the thought brings a bitter taste to his mouth. No. The Nagloper is proud, the life debt will hold. There was no need for such power over him, not when Sebastian knew what it was like on the receiving end.

The sun is beginning to rise again, the sky is a dancing violet, weaving between coal black clouds and the deep blue of the night. Maybe if he didn’t fear the sun, it would be beautiful. Sebastian looks up to the Nagloper, whose eyes are fixed on the horizon, where his pack had run off into the desert.

“Do you have a name?”

* * *

**Los Angeles, 2003**

A month ago, Skelter had won a small, upright piano in a bet. The details of which he has yet to disclose. Not having any room in his havens, Skelter chose to push the thing up against the wall where the dartboard hung, much to the annoyance of Damsel.

“How the fuck can I play with that thing in the way?” She’d groaned, gesturing at the instrument with a handful of darts.

“You’re supposed to aim for the board which, by the looks of it, is above the piano.” Skelter remarked, brow raised. Damsel had flipped him off before chucking a dart, hitting the triple ring.

“What kind of dive keeps a piano in the corner?” She grumbles. “Give it to that smoke shop in Santa Monica or whatever, we don’t need it.”

“Aw c’mon Damsel, it livens the place up. And you never know, maybe someone’ll play it.”

Damsel had paused mid throw, squinting at Skelter.

“You went through all the hassle to get a piano in here, and you can’t even fucking play it?”

It’s sat quietly in the Last Round since. Bar some of Isaac’s people, very few Anarchs keep up, or even have, a music hobby in the first place. There was a handful pockmarks in the pale wood from poorly aimed darts, and it smelled vaguely of hops from when someone had spilled beer on it last week.

But as Nines walks into the Last Round, still unsure of what to say to LaCroix, the metal Damsel usually has blasting out of the speakers is absent. In its stead is lively piano music, accompanied by bar patrons singing along with familiar songs. Nines enters, hearing the tail end of _Dancing in the Moonlight._ There’s an electric, jovial air in the bar tonight, the kind of feel-good energy that only blooms with good music, singing, and alcohol.

But as he looks over to the once-silent piano nestled in that alcove, Nines sees no one sitting at it. The keys look like they’re moving, and he swears he sees the light shimmer along the line of someone’s back, but why their pianist would use Obfuscate is beyond him.

The beginning notes of Billy Joel’s _Piano Man_ ring out, much to the joy of the patrons. Nines wouldn’t be surprised if someone pulled out a harmonica to join in.

He nears the piano. It’s only when he’s standing right beside it can he see who's sitting there.

“What the fuck are you doing here.” He growls at Prince LaCroix, who doesn’t turn up from playing. The music crests with the chorus, LaCroix’s fingers dancing over the keys.

“I thought it was only fair that I impede on your Elysium, after that performance last night.” He responds. Nines catches a flash of blue as his gaze flicks up the Anarch.

Nines crosses his arms, looking at the profile of the Malkavian. There’s a white scar bisecting his eyebrow, new skin glistening in the dim lights.

“Then why the Obfuscate?”

“I’m not so dull as to enter a popular Anarch hangout without some form of protection.” LaCroix says, rolling his eyes. The Malkavian shrugs. “Besides, you have a piano in here and my own has yet to be shipped over from New York. No one else was playing it, so I helped myself to the empty stool.” 

Someone is singing their heart out behind Nines, ragged voice going through the verses they knew off by heart.

_And he’s quick with a joke, or to light up your smoke,_

_But there’s someplace that he’d rather be._

“I’m not just here to give a free performance, mind you.” LaCroix adds, as the singing dies down in the refrain. “I have something to ask of you.”

Nines leans against the wall, “Oh?”

“You've seen the news, about the murder on the pier?”

“Yeah, everyone has.” It was on the LA Sun's front page, massive black and white picture displaying an eviscerated corpse with the cheery LA cityscape behind it. 

“They’re attributing it to the Southland Slasher, it seems to fit his usual brutality. And some of my sources claim it may be the work of a Gangrel; the body certainly resembles the handiwork of one.”

“But you don’t think so?”

LaCroix shakes his head, playing out the final notes of the song. 

“I’ve done my fair share of detective work back in New York. Both I and the whispers disagree with these reports.”

Nines frowns at the mention of whispers, but chooses not to ask. “And where do I come in, in all of this?”

“I did say I wasn’t against working with you - and you haven’t thrown me out of the Last Round yet. So I’d say you’re somewhat willing to cooperate, as well." LaCroix pauses to focus on the song before continuing. "I want to see the body for myself, get an idea of who may have caused this, and if they'll pose a hazard for the Masquerade. And if these murders are as brutal as the papers are making them out to be, it would do me well to bring someone with more combat inclined abilities.” LaCroix's eyes linger on Nines' arms.

“So what? I’ll be your glorified bodyguard? Don’t you have the Sheriff for that?”

“Nonsense. He’s managing business while I investigate.”

Nines huffs a laugh, raising an eyebrow. LaCroix plays the opening notes of a song that Nines doesn’t recognise until someone hollers the first couple of lines.

_Slow down, you crazy child,_

_You’re so ambitious for a juvenile._

“Take it you’re a fan of Billy Joel?”

“I can respect his skill as a songwriter, and the piano pieces are lovely on their own.” LaCroix nods to the crowd. “They’re simply an added bonus.”

Nines hums, watching the Malkavian’s hands once again. They look like they’re barely touching the keys as they dance across the instrument. Nines wonders if he was classically taught.

“Alright then, why don’t you just send some ghoul or fledgling to do your dirty work?”

LaCroix turns to Nines, playing through a complicated note progression without looking.

“Because no one would do it right, Rodriguez.” LaCroix’s smile doesn’t meet his eyes and his patronising tone makes Nines growl. LaCroix continues on unbothered, “we can leave now, if you don’t have any pressing issues to address here.”

“I haven’t said if I’d go or not.” He replies, crossing his arms over his chest.

LaCroix raises a brow, giving Nines an unimpressed look.

Nines sighs. “I’ll get back to you in a bit.”

LaCroix nods, focusing on a complicated melody before responding.

“Excellent, meet me on the Santa Monica Pier in half an hour. I want to finish the song. Don’t be late.”

_Too bad but it’s the life you lead_

_You’re so ahead of yourself_

_That you forget what you need_

As Nines leaves to go upstairs, LaCroix vanishes from his attention once again, as if he were never there. Nines has to focus directly on the piano to make out the Prince’s form. He knew Obfuscate was a powerful Discipline when mastered, but that was just ridiculous. He wonders how old the Malkavian really is.

In the corner booth, Jack watches the pair intently. He knocks back the rest of his whiskey, humming along to the chorus of _Vienna_. Who knew the prick liked ol’ Billy.

* * *

Red and blue police lights flash against the rain and brightly painted stalls. It’s always raining in Santa Monica, and tonight is no different. The puddles gently patter with raindrops, catching the neon and flashing lights the CSI are using to investigate the grisly scene.

Nines peers past the rain to look at the lamppost. What remains of a person is strung up along the bar, lamplight shining red from the blood that had spattered onto it. A torso was impaled on the topmost part, head resting against the cover of the light. Nines can see the whites of the corpse’s eyes – they were afraid. Their legs dangle with their organs, blood drips down a ruined sneaker and mixes with the puddles below. Tubes of organs are anchored to the body with bits of connective tissue, swaying in the breeze from where they’d been ripped out.

“Ah, good. You’re here.” Says LaCroix, as the man walks towards Nines. He's in that large overcoat again, hands dug deep into the pockets. Nines nods in greeting.

“I did say I would.”

“You can say something and never really mean it, mister Rodriguez.”

Nines raises a brow at the Malkavian. “Sure. So what’s with the carnival of horror up there?”

“They haven’t identified the body yet, but he may have been one of the local homeless.”

“What makes you think that?”

LaCroix looks to Nines, then up at the body.

“The whispers told me.”

Malkavian Insight, right. 

“So what’d they say, exactly?”

LaCroix shrugs, eyes flicking over the corpse.

“' _Smells of wet dog_ '.”

Nines frowns.

“And that makes you think he was homeless?”

LaCroix lifts one shoulder in a half-assed shrug. “They like their riddles. Plenty of the homeless own dogs, and it’s raining.”

“Uh huh." Nines shakes his head and catches the suspicious gaze of lingering investigators. "C’mon, I think we’ve stayed here long enough.” LaCroix nods and gestures with a jerk of his head to one of the boardwalk alleyways.

They walk between a pastel pink chippie and the arcade. Nines is about to ask about the voices the Malkavian hears when the Prince suddenly stops. Nines turns to face the Malkvain, who’s staring at the ground intently. 

“You good, LaCroix?”

LaCroix mutters something under his breath and reaches into his thick overcoat to pull out a battered notebook.

LaCroix leans out of the shadows as he flips through the pages. Nines catches frantic writing in thick, black ink. There are some scratchy, foreboding images. Some pages are almost black from how much had been written on it.

“There must be something here…” He hears the Malkavian mutter. LaCroix pauses on a page near the end of the book, finger tracing under the words.

“Go to Brothers’ Salvage.” He says to Nines, look up at the Brujah. Nines frowns.

“Yeah, I’m gonna need more than a demand to do that.” He replies, folding his arms over his chest.

LaCroix rolls his eyes, holding up the page for Nines to see. “’ _Fraternal junkyard_ ’,” he says, like it’s some kind of gospel. “Brothers’ Salvage may be involved in this.”

Nines looks between LaCroix and the page.

A scribbled image resembling the corpse hanging from the lamppost is bracketed by thick letters writing out strange phrases:

_Shining star hovel in the celluloid dreams. Fraternal junkyard seeps with blood and barking hounds. Halfmoon lunacy reserved for the lycanthrope. Lyssa blesses black gums with mad rage._

Nines isn’t familiar with the quirks of the Malkavian bloodline, but this seems like one of them. He bites back a sarcastic remark when he sees the earnest conviction on LaCroix’s face. “What do you think we’ll find?”

“Black gums and white fangs. That’s all I know.” 

Nines sighs. “Fine. This better not be some convoluted trap, Cammy. I’ve survived better assassination attempts than this.” And he has. The Anarch Free States didn’t earn their independence from the Camarilla by _asking._

“I assure you, Rodriguez,” starts LaCroix. “If I’d wanted to kill you, you’d already be ash floating in the harbour.”

Nines raises an eyebrow, not threatened in the slightest. “How endearing. You make that one up on the spot, or do you practice your threats in the mirror?”

LaCroix gives him a flat stare, lip twisted up in a sneer.

“Just go to the junkyard, prick.” He grumbles.

Nines barks out a laugh. “Yeah, whatever, Prince. Next time, be more creative.”

They go their separate ways, LaCroix calling a cab to Hollywood and Nines heading to the underground tunnel. As Nines makes his way up the steps, shaking the rain out of his hair, he catches the heavy smell of a wet animal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> idk why but this chapter took Forever to write omg, went through the five stages of grief like eight times writing this lmao  
> yes lacroix is obsessed with billy joel songs, imagine how the poor soul would react to mitski - class of 2013? bag of bones? the man would be wrecked  
> sword of damocles - typically a symbol of looming danger  
> akrafena - a curved sword used by the ashanti  
> Vicky - queen victoria  
> Lyssa - the spirit of mad rage  
> Horror - naglopers  
> the koffiefontein mines are a real place in south africa, go check it out if you're curious about diamond mining and the mineral revolution in africa lmao  
> also - mithras was the Prince of london and p much the de facto camarilla leader of all of the uk until he got Slurped (diablerised) in the 1990s/2010s
> 
>   
> so, heads up, but i'll making this a nines/lacroix fic next chapter - if that's not your thing, i hope you still stick around to see what happens next, but i get it if you don't


	4. New York, New York

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When its 100 degrees in New York, it's 72 in Los Angeles.  
> When its 30 degrees in New York, in Los Angeles it's still 72.  
> However, there are 6 million interesting people in New York, and only 72 in Los Angeles.  
> ― Neil Simon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sebastian off the string, what crimes will he commit? idk but it's Thirteen Thousand words worth of it, so uh, have fun with that lmao  
> specific warning for this chapter - threatened infanticide, and eye trauma and self harm, bracketed with double line breaks   
> general warning for violence, and sexual content

The ships were made from metal, in this new age of industry and innovation. Sebastian knows to mortals, this advancement pales in comparison to the birth of the automobile and the airplane. Its impact may be considered negligible, to that of the Great War and decolonialisation.

But he’s a port-town brat and always will be. He remembers when wood was their only option for seafaring vessels, and sailors either depended on the whims of the wind, or their own blistered hands to get anywhere. Nothing like these great sheets of iron, spinning propellers, and thick, twisted cables. All built around dragonlike, fire-spewing engines.

This groaning beast weathers the Atlantic’s storms well – no mast in danger of snapping, no sails to gather up, no fear that the boards will splinter underfoot. There are even lights illuminating the cold corridors below deck, electric ones that hum a strange tune against the back of Sebastian’s skull.

Sebastian is a passenger once again, but he has never sailed this far west, has never been so far from land. Beneath his feet, the deep yawns out in all its unfathomable enormity, where light is shunned and the weight of the ocean crafts strange beasts. How tiny he is, in this court of Oceanus. The whispers of sailors, long since drowned at sea, chant with the crash of thunder and lighting.

_Lowlands away._

_Bend your back and break your bones, we’re just a thousand miles from home._

_Ring down below._

The storm rages overhead; icy rain clawing against his face, and the wind whipping up around his clothing, creeping past the seams to hiss at his skin. The waves, easily ten metres tall, bat the ship about with great paws of seawater.

Despite odd looks from passengers and crew, and a judgemental stare from the Nagloper, Sebastian chose to stay above deck to watch the storm. There was something he had to see; the whispers told him as such.

A particularly vicious wave hitting the starboard side knocks Sebastian against the rails. Sebastian cannot drown, but the moon‘s gaze had turned apathetic once he’d intruded upon the realm of deep water. It will not help him if he were to be thrown overboard. He braces himself against the rail, gaze fixed outwards.

The clouds have parted in deference to the splendour of the full moon. Behind a backdrop of the dark, churning ocean, and a sky punctured with stars, the rays of moonlight catches on the floating arc of an albatross.

Its long, tapered wings barely move as it catches the updraft bouncing off the waves, soaring above the foam before descending once more. Sebastian feels his joints lock him in place as he stares out at the beast, transfixed.

The feathers shimmer a ghostly white as it sails above the water. Cresting and falling, cresting and falling. It curves through the air in a near serpentine motion, dancing with the wind and the water with a strange, enthralling grace. The serenity of the sight stills even the whispers: they wish to watch as much as he.

The Atlantic voyager was on its own journey, parallel to Sebastian’s own. It had been flying alongside the ship since they’d left the Union of South Africa. He wonders if it will follow them all the way to New York. It won’t be harmed by any of the crew – it was bad luck to kill an albatross.

Sebastian stares out at the bird, blinking away the rain as it trails down his face. His scar throbs with the cold, his fingers are numb from gripping the rail, and his jacket is sopping wet. It’ll take hours for it to fully dry. He has to return below deck soon, before the Nagloper takes it upon himself to drag him out of the storm. But for now, he simply watches.

He wonders what it would be like: to fly.

* * *

**America, 1924**

Sebastian LaCroix (the lack of spacing a typo on his forged documentation) was busy, those first few years in New York. The Malkavian had thrown himself into establishing his own presence in the city and amongst the Camarilla.

Temperance was supposedly a virtue, but Prohibition only let in sin. It took less than four years for rum-running to pay back his investment in triplicate. The favourable connections garnered with the growing Italian mafia a pleasant boon with the business.

Canadian whiskey, French champagne, and English gin; all smuggled into the growing number of speakeasies in the city. If someone were to find themselves indulging in liquor in Manhattan, the Bronx, Brooklyn, or Queens, it was there by Sebastian's machinations. 

His eyes are the off-putting, Malkavian patchwork of yellow and blue. For once, he uses that to his advantage. Younger Kindred struggle to maintain eye contact with him, finding his unblinking stare too unsettling to hold. They say he’s peering straight though them, when in reality he’s just looking at their ear or nose to avoid eye contact. It does wonders, in this modern battlefield of mind games and posturing.

The New York Ventrue despise him for the fact that he isn't one of them; Sebastian wasn't bound to the trivialities of dignitas nor the Gerousia, their clan council. The protection of the imposing Nagloper was more than enough to ward off any attempts on his unlife from aggrieved Ventrue, after he impeded on their territory. 

With the power of the Nagloper by his side, Sebastian could prove he was more than Thrysk’s stray lapdog. News of the Prince’s demise had clung to his coattails for months; whispers coming from those who knew of the Prince of Dover and her divining underling. They were suspicious of his part in her Final Death, that much was obvious. But there was no solid evidence against him, nothing that could be proven.

He’d died over one hundred years ago. Whatever memory there was of Sébastien La Croix had faded, something else taking its place.

His eyes weren’t his own. Neither was his accent. Pieces of other people filling in the voids his Embrace had made.

The changes to his name were strange - if he thought about it for too long. Such small differences between the words themselves, and yet the identities and eras associated with them were vastly different.

But this? The money, the connections, the power? It’s all his. His legacy. A cruel Belgian thug and ambitious Ventrue noble are footnotes in _his_ story. Sebastian is a self-made man, who clawed himself out of his own walking grave with a skull full of the moon’s madness.

He’s survived, and now he’ll live.

* * *

**Harris and Sons' Antiques, 1929**

There had been a grand piano in Thrysk Manor, with real ivory keys and polished brass pedals. He doesn’t know what happened to it, apparently the manor had been claimed by some Nosferatu elder. Who knows what the Crawler had done to spruce up the place. Perhaps a hoard of rats had made their home in Thrysk’s study, chewing through her expensive tomes.

While something of equal grandeur would be appropriate for a Kindred of his standing – LaCroix’s attention is caught by an old, upright piano in an antique shop he passes by, one early evening. The wood is dull from age and some of the keys have discoloured blotches from use.

But whispers wreathe the instrument with a warm softness. The quiet tutelage of a young child, their teacher giving small encouragements as they work through a difficult piece. A group of people singing old bar songs in accompaniment to a jaunty tune. A gentle rendition of _Moonlight Sonata_ played with incredible care and precision, and the accompanying applause.

LaCroix didn’t realise he was staring, until the shop owner asks if he’s looking to buy. It’s far below his standards. He could commission a better looking, better working piano - can even have it built in his penthouse haven. But the whispers have never been so pleasant than the ones he hears by this one.

Without looking, LaCroix hands the owner two hundred dollars and walks away, telling them he’ll send someone to pick it up.

(That someone being the Nagloper, who nearly gives the shop owner a heart attack when he suddenly appears and starts carrying the instrument away)

The piano goes under the large window that lets the moonlight in. Despite how rough it looks against all the finery of his apartment; the piano’s quiet whispers make it the most precious thing there.

For the first time in a century, Sebastian settles on a stool, and presses a key. Then another, and another. At first, he can only play with his right hand – even then, it’s stiff and awkward. Too tense from years of clenching it into a fist, or around the hilt of a sword. But slowly, and with no small amount of cursing, Sebastian regains his old skill.

He remembers how to hold his hand for the chords; to press gently against the keys and keep his arms up, instead of letting them hang loose. One hand becomes two, the music beginning to be less unsure and discordant. A melody pulls itself out of the amateur din.

A teacher, long since dead, quietly guides a boy, long since forgotten, through the different scales and notes. The language changes, it's mostly English. But every now and again, Sebastian hears French. He feels a sharp pang in his chest when he does.

It's been so long since he was home. But he knows that if he were to return to Calais, it would be vastly different to the city he once knew. And its change would only remind Sebastian of the extent he himself has been transfigured by his unlife. Warped reflection in a shattered mirror. Blessed by the moon, cursed by the rest of the night’s darkness.

He plays a song all the way through, by the third week of relearning. It was fraught with mistakes and his hand had managed to cramp up by the end, somehow. But he still finished it, and that was more than enough for Sebastian.

His gaze flicks over to a small oil painting of Calais. Behind it, a concealed lock-box had been built into the wall. It holds the snakehead of Thrysk’s cane. The Nagloper's packmates had given it to him before they’d disappeared into the wild. The whispers had told him to destroy it, to cast away the shadow of guilt. But it was a trophy, proof that he was more than some Malkavian tool to be used and cast away as others pleased.

No. It will stay there, it will remind him of how far he’s come. He knows it isn’t actualy making those hissing sounds, knows Aurelia isn’t lurking in the shadows, waiting for him to admit his part in Thrysk’s death. They were facets of his paranoia, another jittering aspect of the Malkavian bloodline he’d learned to block out.

Sebastian returns his attention to his sheet music, picking up from here he’d trailed off.

The song was Schubert’s _Nacht und Träume_. Thrysk would be rolling in her ashes, Sebastian smiles at that image. She hated that composer, for reasons unknown. He plays it again, for good measure. Just to keep the old bat spinning.

* * *

**Grand Central Art Galleries, 1934**

Ultimately, New York was Sabbat territory. No matter how many times the Camarilla tried to gain a substantial foothold in the area, the Sabbat were too well established, and had more members. Any territory gained was either quickly lost, or too insignificant for the Sabbat to bother with retaliation. Archbishop Polonia had reigned over the city since the eighteenth century and showed no sign of loosening his iron grip.

But Sebastian was as keen a listener of other Kindred’s whispers as he was his own. He’d heard of a Ventrue from Pennsylvania who saw what the Sabbat didn’t – an opening. The Wall Street Crash had the mortal world stumbling into chaos, and Michaela found herself set to become a multi-billionaire with the corporate stock she’d gotten her hands on. 

He met the woman in an art gallery, one evening. Her face, weathered by the elements in colonial Pennsylvania, was a shrewd one. Gaze flicking across the guests with sharp ambition. She keeps away from the crowd for now, biding her time and watching the dynamics of the Kindred.

Off to the side, the harpy Tomas Arturo shows off his smoky quartz glasses - imported all the way from China, apparently. The whispers tell him otherwise, but Sebastian will keep the petty slight to himself. A red haired woman, a Toreador known as Sophie Langley, was in the crowd watching him. Sebastian hears the rasp of garden shears, and the thump of something fleshy hitting the floor. The future holds something foreboding in store for one of the two, he just wasn’t sure whom.

Michaela holds no power just yet, but the whispers are strange around her. Excited, fearful. He remembers a vision of a white tailed deer with black fur, antlers cupping a mound of glittering coins. Michaela has the beast’s eyes. She was going to be important; he knew that much. It was strange, though, that she was blonde. He thought she'd have black hair.

Sebastian was leery of most other Ventrue business types after his original stint with Thrysk, but he was several decades Michaela’s senior. The power dynamics would be different, this time. He may as well introduce himself and his services to the future power player of New York. 

“You are Michaela, yes?”

Her confused frown quickly morphs into a tight smile when she sees who approached her.

“Ah, mister LaCroix. Good evening.”

Sebastian cocks his head. “You’ve heard of me?”

“Most the Ventrue in this city know of you, Malkavian,” Michaela replies, gesturing to him with her glass. “Though I am curious as to why you’re talking with _me_ of all Kindred. It’s not like I have any real power.”

“Any power thus far,” Sebstian replies, brow raised at her bluntness. “Your throne has yet to solidify, but it will in due time.”

She squints at the Malkavian, ghost of a sneer pulling at her lips. What a lunatic she must think he is.

“And what do you mean by that?”

“The Sabbat don’t care for mortal economics; they won’t realise your rise to power until it’s too late.”

Sebastian sees a spark in Michaela’s eyes; triumph, anticipation, who truly knows. He steps closer, giving her his most diplomatic smile.

“Should you require my Vision, I am happy to offer it. At a price, of course.” He adds.

Michaela studies Sebastian, and the Nagloper standing behind him. The Horror peers down at her with a piercing, red stare that betrays little emotion. She turns back to the Malkvian - his face is youthful, younger than herself when she was Embraced. But sharpened from years as a Kindred, like a well-worn theatre mask.

There’s a thrumming energy that seems to jitter under his skin. He’s excited about something and can barely contain it. His thumb plays with one of the buttons on his overcoat – Michaela isn’t sure if LaCroix realises it.

Ambitious Malkavians don’t have very long lifespans in Camarilla society, most Kindred believing them better suited as advisors or removed from the grand scheme of things completely. But this one had dominated the rum-running business during the thirteen years of Prohibition. And he had yet to be murdered in the street. LaCroix may be a useful ally, with the plans Michaela had for New York.

She’s heard the rumours about LaCroix: that he knows Lucky Luciano personally, he killed a Prince, he once allied himself with the Society of Leopold, he sees into the future, he diablerised his sire. She isn’t sure which to believe, and which to cast off as usual Camarilla gossip.

His mismatched eyes remind Michaela of the mutts from her old hometown. Too bright, too still. They see something she never can, nor wants, to see. Michaela takes a sip from her glass before nodding, never looking away from the Malkavian.

“I will contact you, should I require a man of your… talents.”

“That’s all I ask: for you to consider.” Sebastian nods at the Ventrue before returning to the crowd – there was other business for him to attend to.

The Prince of Chicago was visiting with an Archon known as Qadir al-Asami. The man was well regarded in the Camarilla for his sense of duty and prowess in battle, Sebastian wanted to see this Toreador for himself. 

“Do you think this Qadir fellow knows any of the Chicago mobs?” He asks the Nagloper. “We’ve had rotten luck trying to get any sort of foothold in that city.”

The Nagloper gives him a look, as he always does. But Sebastian’s learned to discern between a look and a _look._ This was more a disinterested flick of the eyes; the Nagloper was growing bored.

“Another half hour, then we’ll see to that business at the waterfront.”

The small crease between the Nagloper’s brow disappears and he nods once. Sebastian turns, catching sight of Prince Lodin. And beside him, the striking visage of Qadir al-Asami. All long, glossy hair and a well-tailored suit. The Toreador’s amber eyes burn in the low light, magnetising in their intensity.

The rumours were true – he _was_ handsome.

* * *

**Prospect Park, 1957**

The third Sabbat Civil War, despite only lasting one-hundred days, had sent shockwaves throughout the city's underworld. There was some agreement signed, nothing of true importance to Sebastian. What he cared about was the sheer number of casualties on either side, resulting in the Sabbat losing a third of their members. Some said it was more, others less. But the point still stood that the Sabbat are now nowhere near as numerous as they once were.

There where whispers, among Kindred, that the Camarilla may finally have a chance at claiming New York for themselves.

Sebastian could feel the tension beginning to gather, it made his teeth ache. The whispers were harsher, barking out commands like a pack of soldiers. He was to either be involved in the upcoming conflict, or be mowed down by it. And Sebastian feels a hissing fear settle under his lungs – the Nagloper alone may not be enough to protect him, when the battle for New York sparked. The whispers weren't convinced he was.

A vision, of a cat crouched underneath an arched bridge, paw morphing into an outstretched hand, had spurred him to seek out New York City’s parks.

The Nagloper seemed perplexed by Sebastian’s leap in logic, but took to the skies in his Chiropteran Minotaur form, nonetheless. He wasn't the ones with the visions, after all. With eyes on the ground and in the sky, Sebastian was bound to discover that whom Luna wished for him to find.

On the third night of looking, Sebastian finds his answer in Prospect Park.

A feral tomcat stares at Sebastian, yellow eyes strangely intelligent in the orange streetlights. Its grey fur is thick and healthy, long tail swishing from side to side as it nears Sebastian from under a bridge. He raises a brow at the cat's friendliness as it butts his trouser leg with its head - his Kindred nature should have repulsed it. 

_Famulus._

_Look up._

Sebastian's head snaps up in time to see a large, feline form peel itself from the shadows under the bridge. It's a catamount, muscles visibly shifting under a sandy coloured pelt, gaze fixed on him. The mountain lion stops, red eyes vibrant in the shadows of its face.

This is not just an animal. Sebastian nods to it.

"I'd like to have a word with you." He says, breaking the tentative silence of the park. The tomcat leaves Sebastian and sniffs the cougar's nose, before hopping onto a bench and curling up. 

The larger cat stares at its famulus before turning to Sebastian. It blinks, lowering its head. With a strange, stretching sound of skin and bone attaining their original shape, and the hiss of black shadows peeling off its form, the cougar straightens, and a woman takes its place. Her red eyes peer across at Sebastian as the Gangrel adjusts her petticoat and scarf. Her nostrils are warped into the curve of a cat's nose; her ears long and drawn into points. 

"How did you know I was here?" She says, voice flat and distanced as she tries to determine how much of a threat Sebastian was to her. 

"I have been privy to the moon and her gossip for some decades now. Please, allow me to introduce myself." He steps forward, hand outstretched. "Sebastian LaCroix." 

She stares at his hand, before looking up at his face. She doesn't move to shake it. Sebastian huffs and shoves both hands into his pockets. 

"You're that Malkavian. The mafia one with the visions." It's not a question. 

"While I have associated with the mob on occasion, I wouldn't call myself a mafioso," Sebastian shrugs. "But yes: through my blood, I have seen into the future."

The Gangrel snorts, watching Sebastian with a raised brow. "You talk like them."

He frowns. "Like who?" 

"Those upper echelon Camarilla in Manhattan. What ever happened to Malkavians talking in riddles, and all that bull?"

Sebastian feels his brow twitch. "What happened to Gangrels minding their own business, and rolling around in the mud?"

The Gangrel gives him a real laugh this time. "I do that in my free time, actually." She remarks. 

Her smile fades once more. "So why have you bothered to come all the way out here to meet with me?"

"I'm sure you've heard of the brewing tensions between us and the Sabbat."

"Us?"

"You have _heard_ of the Camarilla, yes? Gangrel are supposed to be aligned with them, last I remembered."

She rolls her eyes at his tone. "Cut to the chase, Malk."

"Listen, miss..." He gestures to her.

"Jezebelle," the Gangrel supplies.

"Jezebelle. Forgive any insult, but a young Gangrel like yourself doesn't have many boasting rights. I doubt you've truly proven yourself in your clan's eyes." Sebastian holds up his palms in a show of surrender, as Jezebelle frowns at him. "There’s a fight demanding to be had, a chance for a Gangrel like yourself to prove their abilities in combat.

“I believe we will both benefit from a kind of allyship. My Vision has its uses, and you are no doubt capable in a fight. I understand this is a risk, but you're a woman who can do nothing but take risks," he holds his hand out once more. "And I believe I am someone worth the plunge."

Jezebelle stares at Sebastian's hand, then up at him. He can see it in her eyes; she knows she needs to prove herself, needs to step out of her sire's shadow. He remembers the feeling.

Sebastian feels a cold hand clasp his own, blunt claws digging into the back of his hand.

"Alright, Malkavian. We'll see how this plays out." 

* * *

**Hollywood Theatre, 1970**

The Acranum had found its way into the city, drawn to the supernatural goings on that roiled within the shadows of alleyways and boardrooms. Sebastian would have simply ignored them, they were not as voracious in hunting Kindred as their Society of Leopold counterparts, if it were not for Jezebelle contacting him one evening.

“LaCroix – Sebastian – fuck. Are you there?” Her tone is uncharacteristically frantic. Deep growls chorus her ranting.

“Jezebelle? What’s going on?”

“Those fucking Arcanum bastards staked me and made off with Longfellow. They took my fucking famulus.”

Sebastian frowns. “They didn’t just kill you?”

“I moved my heart away from the stake, and threw myself into the Hudson. By the time I’d dragged myself out of the water, they were long gone.” 

“And what do you want me to do?”

“To help me fucking find him, jackass. Get your bodyguard to fly around, use your insight to figure out where they are – _anything_.”

He sighs, listening to the Gangrel’s voice take on a desperate edge. It was raining all day, the downpour continuing on into the evening. He wasn’t particularly keen on getting wet, but if fixing this mess endeared himself towards Jezebelle, then it may be worth enduring.

“Alright, I’ll help you,” Sebsatian replies, trying to calm down the incensed Gangrel.

Sebastian knows next to nothing about the Arcanum and how they work - but he’s heard of someone who’s made a name for themself solving mysteries.

“Meet me at the abandoned theatre in East Village, don’t go in until I get there.”

* * *

The guttered skeleton of the old Hollywood Theatre sits quietly in its grave, rain slapping against the rotting wood and broken windows. Algae and vines grow from the cracks between concrete and panelling, the smell of mildew hanging in the stagnant air. The plush red carpet underfoot is stained with dark splotches, dust throwing itself from the fibres as Sebastian and Jezebelle pad through the building.

_Look for the detective in a paperback mask._

_Fresh meat lingering by the popcorn._

_Crawler crawling by._

“Why are we here?” Jezebelle asks, breaking the heavy silence. Sebastian gives her a scowl and motions for her to be quiet.

“I won’t be able to find the Acranum on my lonesome, there may be someone who can help us.” He whispers, peering into the darkness with little success. Jezebelle doesn’t seem to be as impeded by the lack of light, using Protean to give her night vision.

“Sorry to break it to the two of you," comes a voice from the darkness, "but the movies have been cancelled for a couple years now. Maybe you missed the dilapidation and lack of people when you walked in.”

Sebastian whips around, hand going for his pistol, he sees Jezebelle tense out the corner of his eye. Her eyes flick across the shadows rapidly, even she can’t see anything. They must be hiding with Obfuscate.

“Now now, no need for anything hasty," the voice is to the back of them now. "Just wondering what a couple of Kindred like you two are doing in a place like this.” 

Sebastian straightens, putting his hands in his pockets.

"I was wondering if we could speak with Gianni D'Angelo. You wouldn't happen to be him, now, would you?"

"Maybe." Says the shadows. "Maybe not. What's it to you?" 

"My friend here has had a run in with the Arcanum. Lost something quite important to her. We need help getting it back."

Sebastian hears a hum, and the rasp of a lighter igniting. If he strains, he can hear a low muttering.

_Pair of strangers turning up in the middle of a stormy night. I didn't recognise either of 'em, but the city that never sleeps holds many in her arms. Maybe I'm just too new to this._

Sebastian turns and sees a pair of hands wreathed in the yellow flame of a Zippo. A cigar is lit.

_Either way, they looked desperate enough to come to me for help. Must be something that's got the bigwigs upstairs stumped, or maybe they just don't care._

The end glows cherry red as the speaker inhales, then lets out a thick plume of smoke. His face appears, shadows dancing across his warped face as the lighter is clicked shut.

_One of 'em's got the ruby reds of a Gangrel. Holds herself with too much tension to be normal. She's lost something important alright, and I'm willing to bet my remaining good looks it's her famulus._

"Who are you speaking to?" Sebastian asks, frowning at the man who slowly pulls himself from the shadows. He doesn't look up to the other Kindred just yet, frowning at the floor in concentration.

_But the other one is a mystery, and I'm not sure where to start. He's more than he seems, can't pin down his clan. Could be Ventrue, but he doesn't stink of old money and entitlement. Could be Toreador, but there's a coldness to him they don't have…_

"Are you going to talk to yourself all night, or can we get to work?" Interrupts Jezebelle, growing more irritated with each word of the man's monologue.

The man's head snaps up. His twisted features are undoubtedly Nosferatu, though more tame than some of the extreme disfigurations Sebastian has seen in the past.

"Apologies, ma'am. Get lost in my own thoughts sometimes." He nods to them. "Gianni D'angelo, you could call me a detective, sure." 

"What do you know about the Arcanum? Any locations of bases? Storage facilities?" Sebastian asks, stepping between the shorter Nosferatu and increasingly agitated Gangrel.

"I know nothing personally, they're a recent addition to the melting pot of the supernatural world. A boon in that is they aren't well established, so there won't be many places for them to be."

He takes another drag before speaking again, the light of the cigar reflects in his eyes. One is smaller than the other. "But I know the address of someone who's done work with the Arcanists. Ex-professor of parapsychology, real academic type."

"Can you take us to them?"

The detective looks up at Sebastian and Jezebelle, gaze shrewd.

"So long as I can be sure you won't hurt her."

"I can assure you, mister D'Angelo, that neither I nor my companion here will harm a hair on her head." Sebastian replies, nodding. "Now, do you take payment in cheques, or cash?"

* * *

(Threatened infanticide)

* * *

Gianni leads the two Kindred to a small apartment block in a more rundown part of the Bronx. He’d only heard about the parapsychologist from other Nosferatu, the rumour and information mill always whirring in the busy city. Professor Kira Franco had fallen on hard times when her university had to let her go, after recent economic crashes.

She'll bounce back, hopefully. For now, she was in the unfortunate circumstance of being entangled with the supernatural, instead of simply studying them. She knows more than she's let on in her published papers, things that have aided the Arcanum in more ways than one. Gianni doesn't doubt that if a Justicar was ever due to appear in the city, she would be one of the first Kine killed to cover up the Masquerade breach.

He’s still wary of the clients. Sure, the job is easier than most he’s had to take on in recent years, but there’s something off about the man. He can’t place it, and feels a spike of frustration at not being able to place his clan, let alone his motives. Then again, Gianni’s only been a Kindred for ten or so years now. He was still learning, but he’s always been a fast study.

“So, mister LaCroix.” He starts, as they climb the stairwell to the third floor. “Been in New York long?”

He seems more chatty than his companion, who would shoot Gianni a sharp glare at any attempt at conversation. Not that he can blame her, it was _her_ famulus that was missing, after all.

“Depends on your definition of a long time.”

“Couple months? Years?”

The Gangrel snorts and Gianni hears her mutter _neonates_ under her breath. He ignores the remark.

“Decades, now.” The client responds. “And yourself?”

“Born, raised, died. Never set foot outside the city, and don’t have plans to.”

LaCroix hums, yellow and blue eyes peering down at Gianni.

“Can’t say I agree with such a rooted life, but perhaps that’s a boon to living in this day and age. No strangers surrounding you, no language to learn, no customs to understand.”

“How old are you, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Older than most in this country, though that’s not saying much.” He responds, with a strange sigh. A more wistful expression settles on the other man’s face.

Gianni knows he won’t be getting much more out of him, and opts to quietly lead the two for the rest of the journey.

They reach the door of the parapsychologist – 3F. The wood is a peeling green, brass plating tarnished from the humidity and lack of maintenance. Gianni knocks twice with the back of his hand. A muffled _hold on_ and the soft babbling of a child can be heard behind the door.

Gianni frowns, he never heard anything about her having a kid.

The door opens to a woman in her thirties, who gives Gianni a shaky smile. Her eyes flick up to the other, grim faced Kindred as they loom behind him in their dark clothing. 

“Professor Franco?” Gianni says, gaining her attention once more.

“Oh, uh, just Ms Franco. I haven’t taught in years.” She replies, trying to give him a polite grin that falls flat. She thinks something’s off about them, she doesn’t know what to do.

“We have a couple questions for you, regarding a work associate of yours.” Gianni gestures past the door. “May we come in?”

Franco frowns, but she hasn’t been living a hard life for very long; she doesn’t have that baseline suspicion that roots itself in most lifelong New York City residents.

“Of course.”

She doesn’t offer anything to eat or drink. She knows something is off about them.

Gianni can hear the lights overhead humming, there’s a faint damp smell. But she’s kept it cleaner than most, the carpet isn’t blotchy and there’s no cigarette smoke residue staining the walls brown. A crib lays by the wall of her one-bedroom apartment. The baby is sleeping, Gianni speaks in a lower tone so as not to wake it.

“We’d like to know about the Arcanum, they have something important belonging to my clients.” He gestures to LaCroix and Jezebelle.

Franco crosses her arms, face blank. “I’m sorry, I don’t know who that is.”

Gianni sighs, “Ms Franco, please don’t lie to me. I have it on good authority that you’ve consulted the Arcanum on multiple occasions. You’re considered an expert on all things supernatural. Don’t make this any more difficult than it has to be.”

Behind him, one of his clients moves. Franco looks at Gianni, he sees the muscles in her jaw working as she grinds her teeth.

“What did they take? Surely this is a misunderstanding – I’ve only ever known them to be upstanding individuals.”

Jezebelle lets out a rueful snort. “Appearances are deceiving, Kine.”

Franco frowns at the Gangrel. “Pardon?”

Gianni waves his hand. “Don’t worry about my client.” He sees LaCroix out the corner of his eye, standing near the crib. He tries not to frown, instead focusing his attention to the parapsychologist. “How about we sit down and talk this out like normal adults?”

Franco seems less than willing to give up any knowledge she has about the Arcanum. Maybe they’d sworn her to secrecy, maybe she didn’t trust Gianni and his clients; both were understandable, she had a child to worry about.

Gianni is trying to whittle away her suspicion, asking simple questions, trying to trip her up. Anything to get anywhere. He can see the Gangrel beginning to lose her patience. Then Franco’s head snaps up to look over his shoulder.

“What are you doing? Sir!” Her frantic tone makes Gianni twist round to look behind him and see what’s going on.

Gianni’s brows shoot up to his hairline, and he clenches the table with enough force to make the wood creak.

LaCroix picks up the child, he's gentle in such a way that sets Gianni on edge. Like he's pretending at tenderness. LaCroix looks up at the mother.

"It's certainly... dangerous, how high up we are." He walks towards the window, slowly, eyes never leaving Ms Franco's. The latch unlocks with a flick of his index finger. "A child as young as this would never survive the impact."

He turns to face the woman fully, and Gianni realises just what LaCroix is suggesting. 

"And if you tell me where the Arcanum are holding my companion's famulus, we'll never have to see what kind of stain your daughter would leave on the sidewalk below."

"I don't-"

"Do you think she'll bounce, or splatter outwards?" He reaches for the window. The mother surges up, only to be held down by Jezebelle's grasp.

" _Stop it._ Don't – just, don't do anything, okay? I'll..." Franco pauses, swallowing. Her hands shake and she reeks of terror. Her eyes never leave the small bundle in Sebastian's arms. She knew something was off about them, but she didn’t think they would do _this_. "Don't hurt her."

"You know I won't, Ms Franco. If you tell me what I need to know."

Gianni can't stop staring at the blanket, it has little stars on it. They look too vibrant against the pallor of LaCroix's corpse-pale skin. Even Franco can see the wrongness in how still he holds himself, in the prying eyes that see right through her. Jezebelle pins Franco to her seat, claws digging into the other woman’s shoulder, expression neutral.

Maybe, if it had been anyone else, Gianni would have been comfortable in assuming he was bluffing. 

"They hold relics in this occultist shop, in Queens. I'll- I'll write down the address." Franco stumbles out of her seat, frantically looking for a notepad and pen. "Just put my kid down _for fuck's_ _sake_." 

LaCroix stands there, framed by the orange streetlights streaming in from the window. His dark suit clashes against the dusty blue blanket with all those little yellow stars. The baby couldn't have been more than a couple of weeks old - Ms Franco still had a belly and the baby was so _small_ in his grasp.

LaCroix cocks his head, pupils flashing white. "Write. Faster." He whispers. 

Gianni looks away, feeling nauseous. 

They get the address and leave. Franco slams the door behind them, lock audibly latching. Gianni can hear muffled sobs fading as they entered the stairwell.

“I believe it’s time for us to make our way to Queens.” LaCroix says, Jezebelle hums in response.

Gianni can’t dislodge the feeling of discomfort welling up in him. There’s something wrong with the Kindred, he just can’t put words to it. Jezebelle doesn’t seem as disturbed as he is, so Gianni keeps his concern to himself. Is this what’s destined for him when he lives past the years of a mortal? An apathy with a knife-blade edge?

"Is there an issue, D'Angelo?" LaCroix asks.

His gaze meets LaCroix's. Yellow and blue, Gianni read somewhere that the scientific name for it was heterochromia. Malkavian. That's what he is. A madman who would threaten to throw a baby out a window and feel nothing. Gianni looks down and hopes this will be his last job with him.

"I got none, LaCroix. Let's go find your friend's famulus yeah?"

* * *

* * *

The shop is quiet. The faint blue neon of strange symbols flicker against the raindrops. Tall shelves, glass cabinets, and dark wood tables are covered in strange and absurd trinkets.

A volcanic glass pyramid warps the appearance of the ceremonial dagger behind it. A jar is full of eyes: some pupils are round and others have slits, the irises a multitude of different colours, and the sclera range from black, grey, white, to red.

An amputated thumb sits on a white silk pillow behind several layers of leaded glass. There’s a dusty box that’s warm to the touch, golden clasp soldered shut. A rolled up carpet, that seems to have a habit of ending up in a different spot than where it was placed, now sits propped up beside a chair with manacles bolted on the legs and arm rests.

Some of this stuff is simply for show, others more malicious than they seem. No one can find what’s truly genuine, unless they know what they’re looking for.

Debbie Hagen is exhausted, but the guys who own the place are paying her five bucks an hour just to sit at the counter during the late hours of the night. All she really has to do is let people into the backroom when they tell her the secret code-word.

If she keeps it up for another week, she'll be able to afford those textbooks her lecturer's been on her ass about getting. She likes the shop, even if it's _incredibly fucking creepy_ at this time of the night. All the little shrunken heads seem to move of their own accord, but Debbie’s been telling herself it’s the wind. Despite not feeling any wind.

She swears she hears something walking in front of her, but there's nothing there when she looks up from her notebook, writing down ideas for a novel. She’s got the plot sorted out, now she’s spit-balling title names. Debbie chalks it up to exhaustion, and looks down again. This time set on ignoring what's possibly lurking in the shadows - she doesn't get paid enough to get killed by demons or whatever. 

She leans down to cross out _Darkness Eternal_ and _A World Hidden in Plain Sight_ , and fails to notice a cloud of mist seep through the cracks in the window, closed sign gently flapping against the displaced air. She rests her eyes for a couple minutes, and doesn’t see the faint outline softly open the door and close it, walking past her. She sneezes, and doesn't hear a body hit the floor and a chair scrape against the tiles. A secret door is opened, but Debbie’s turned on the radio to listen to the AM radio show.

Bored, Debbie stretches her back, feeling her vertebrae click and pop with a wince. Then she straightens, the best idea for her novel’s title comes to her in a flash. She smiles in excitement as she writes in thick, bold lettering: _World of Darkness._

“This’ll make a kickass series,” she mutters.

The sound of purring jolts Debbie out of her thoughts. She freezes in her seat when she sees a woman staring down at her, wide eyed.

Her eyes are blood red and there’s a grey cat laying on her shoulders. There's a man beside her, a freakishly large sword slung across his back. They meet eyes, and the man shakes his head without saying a word. A shorter man, with what looks like a fuck-ton of burn scars on his face, gives her an awkward smile and nod.

This definitely counts as a robbery. Probably.

Debbie blinks, remembers how much she's being paid, and minds her business. The door opens and shuts, and she is alone once more. 

She slumps against the counter and sighs. She knew she should've gotten that dishwasher job.

* * *

"Thanks."

"It's no problem."

"What're you going to do with that sword? It's enormous, you won't be able to use it."

"No, but my companion has been needing a new weapon, after his old one shattered."

"Oh right, that fight with the Lupine."

"He doesn't let me forget it."

"He can speak?"

"When he wants to. Usually it’s just looks."

* * *

(Eye trauma + self harm)

* * *

**Delphi Suites, 1972**

The moon whispers such awful things, some nights. It plants ideas in his head that Sebastian cannot shake off. A tick from Hecate, burrowed too deep for anyone to pull out.

There is a shallow part of Sebastian that still manages to cling to logic, as the full moon strips him of his sanity. It is often angry, frustrated. Hissing and spitting at him in increasingly frantic tones.

_Get up._

_Stop doing that_.

_Act normal for God’s sake_.

But he can’t stop staring at his reflection. Those aren’t his eyes. Ziener’s taken them and now his sire is haunting Sebastian through the fakes planted in his skull. He’s sure of it. That fucking bastard did something, and now he’ll never leave Sebastian. He’ll never find true freedom.

Sebastian looks down at the knife in his hand. It trembles. No, the hand is shaking. If he could just get rid of them. His eyes were brown and now they aren’t, and a dead man is staring through him. Possessing him.

There are six muscles anchoring them in his skull. He feels them, he swears. Jumping, writhing maggots that spew poison into his mind. Sebastian looks down at the shard of mirror that remains in his apartment. He pulls down his bottom eyelid with one hand, raising the knife with the other.

_Don’t do this._

He feels the cold steel against the inside of his eyelid, white of his sclera bulging against the pressure.

_Get rid of it._

Vitae runs down his face, knife digging deeper. His body doesn’t blink nor flinch, as Sebastian pushes harder and further with the blade.

_GET RID OF IT._

Something grasps Sebastian’s wrist, forcing him to wrench the knife out with a wet squelch. Immediately Sebastian tries to fight against the grip, tries to finish what he’d started. He thinks he’s screaming something, but he can’t hear it above the whispers.

With one eye red and bleeding, the other wide and frenzied, Sebastian twists and looks up at the face of the Nagloper. His impassive face is different now: eyes slightly wider, brows slightly higher. If Sebastian were more lucid, he may recognise it as a glimmer of concern.

“Let go of me _. Let fucking go!_ ” Sebastian hisses, trying to escape from the Nagloper’s grasp. “He’s in my eyes, don’t you see it? I need to get him out, he’s dead but he gave me his eyes!”

He thrashes against the grip, trying to regain control his knife hand and finish the job – free himself from Ziener.

It’s a useless endeavour, the Nagloper grips his wrist with enough force to make him drop the blade. It clatters to the floor by their feet, smearing vitae on Sebastian’s nice tiles. He thinks he’s crying, but he’s not sure what’s from the knife wound and what’s tears. Everything’s blood, in the end.

He feels the strange press of Auspex on his mind, like two large hands wrapping around his psyche.

**Calm.**

If Sebastian were alive, he would be wheezing desperate breaths as his heart outpaced the rest of his body. Instead, he’s as still as he always is. Sebastian feels the energy of the half-frenzy drain from him. He feels his head butt against the Nagloper’s chest as they both go down to the ground. The grip on around his arms remains, cold claws digging into the flesh. He focuses on them, trying to block out the whispers.

Sebastian grinds his teeth together to hold back the pathetic keening that creeps from his chest. He was supposed to have been done with this. He killed Ziener himself. But he still hears his sire’s voice. Still feels his hands. Still sees his eyes in every reflection. 

He feels the Nagloper swivel round to look at the mess he’d made of the apartment. Shattered glass and mirrors; he couldn’t stand Ziener staring back at him in his reflection. He knows, come the next evening, he’ll have to clean it up and smother his embarrassment in acting so irrationally.

He lets the Nagloper guide him to a chair. A hand presses against his shoulder, telling him to stay put. Sebastian nods numbly, half his vision a blurry red. The faint sound of glass clinking together murmurs against the silence that blankets his skull.

His eye hurts.

* * *

* * *

**Jumping Jack Power Plant, 1974**

Marco Mercurio should've known there was more to the job the moment he pulled up to the abandoned power plant. He’d tagged along with a couple Genovese soldiers as a favour to the family. He tried to stay neutral and have a thumb in everyone’s pie, but that usually meant he had to do grunt work to smooth ruffled feathers.

It was supposed to be a quick weapons’ deal, the kind Mercurio’s done for years now. But there was something about the corroding skeleton of the building, with its clawing shadows and metal-tainted air, that immediately put his nerves on edge.

Mercurio swears he sees something watching them, but every time he turns to look, there’s nothing there. He chalks it up to the late hour and strange meetup place. He’s only heard rumours about this LaCroix, apparently he’s been in the business since the Prohibition era. The Genovese boys seem to know more than he does, but they think it’s funny keeping him in the dark. _Stronzos._

“Are we supposed to wait for this LaCroix guy to show up, or can we just drop the goods off?” Mercurio asks, squinting up at the rafters, coated in moonlight. It was a full moon, too. Probably an omen or something.

“Oh, we’ll deliver them alright.” Drawls one of the more senior Genovese soldiers. A round of snickering and dark chuckles sound out in the building, some of the guys elbowing each other and gesturing to him, like he wasn’t in on the joke.

Mercurio frowns. “The fuck am I not being told here, Danny.”

“Don’t worry yourself Marky, just let us handle it.” More laughter from the twenty-odd other mafiosos that had met them at the entrance. Mercurio doesn’t get why they’d brought so many guys, either. He recognises people from the other families; Lucchese, Colombo, Bonanno, Gambino. Which struck him as weird, some of those people should've been trying to off each other, associated families holding long-time grudges.

They all had pieces on them, too: colts, 5mm, .357 magnums, you name it. Some were guns Mercurio had supplied the families in the first place – he could see where he’d sanded off the serial number. One of them had an honest to god Tommy gun slung across his back, too.

What the hell was going on?

“Christ what’re youse trying to pull, huh? Provoke the guy into shooting?”

Danny, who’d known Mercurio for a couple years now, shrugs, shaking his head.

“The Boss isn’t not too happy with LaCroix dipping into the coke and heroin market, Marco. Bastard’s had a habit of elbowing his way into everyone’s business for years now, and The Commission’s decided he’s not worth tolerating anymore.”

Mercurio feels a cold rush of panic in his guts. This isn’t the job he’d agreed to. Before he can open his mouth to curse them out for lying to him, a voice inches from the darkness, filling the room.

“Now that’s truly a shame.” It says, the consistency of dripping tar. “Here I was assuming I’d finally receive that shipment of weapons. Instead, I have a rat infestation to deal with.”

Out of the corner of his eye, something peels itself from the shadows, eyes red and piercing. Other men see it too and whip around to face it, guns drawn. There’s a flash of silver, a blur of motion.

It all happens too quickly; the rasp of metal, choked screams and wild gunfire fills the power plant for barely more than a minute. Something splashes against Mercurio’s face and he’s blinded. It’s warm and what manages to trickle into his mouth tastes metallic. Mercurio stumbles back and something slams into him, sending him to the ground.

As Mercurio wipes his eyes, blinking furiously, he barely has time to register that it was blood on his face before someone grabs him by the scruff of his neck. Mercurio is dragged, kicked and writhing, to where three other survivors lay in varying states of injury. The hand pushes him to the ground, kneeling. He doesn’t see anyone else but the person holding his neck. What the fuck. What monsters did The Commission piss off?

He hears footsteps over the pounding of his heartbeat, and looks up.

A man emerges from the shadows. He looks young, younger than Mercurio. There's a scar across his right eyebrow, and his eyes are different colours. He looks pissed, sneer twisting his pale face.

No, pale would be too dark. Mercurio can see the faint outline of purple muscle where the skin around his eyes is most thin – this man looks like a corpse.

“Good evening, soldiers.” He says, voice barely above a whisper. “It seems you’re all that’s left. Tragic.”

Mercurio can hear someone’s wheezing breaths pant out in sharp bursts. Or maybe it’s his own. He can’t tell. He can’t stop staring at that pinning gaze, like being caught in a staring match with a wild dog. If Mercurio looked away, he might lunge.

“I paid good money for those weapons, regardless of any poor relations with your superiors.” He continues, peering down at the four remaining men. “And if I cannot have that, then I will find my retribution in blood.”

The man’s words climb through the steel support-beams of the power plant. The grip on Mercurio’s shirt tightens, and panic almost chokes him. The man reaches into his jacket and pulls out a strange-looking Beretta. He shoots the mafioso nearest him with little emotion, shot ringing in Mercurio’s ears with a whine.

Mercurio surges forward, held back by the grip on his collar. No fucking way he’s getting executed here.

“I’m not with them! I – I can get you your weapons, better ones even!” Mercurio shouts, voice shaky but gradually growing stronger. He’s not gonna die here because of someone else’s fuckup.

“What the fuck, you fucking rat!“ Hisses Danny, who was bleeding heavily from a gash on his head. The man with the mismatched eyes stares at Mercurio – no, above him, in the empty space by his left ear.

“Are you associated with any of the families?” He asks, tilting his head slightly. Mercurio shakes his in a frantic motion.

“No, fuck no. I’m an independent contractor. I didn’t know what they were planning, I swear.”

He hears the two remaining men curse him out, call him a piece of shit and a cocksucker. All Mercurio does is look up at the man, praying to his mamma’s God that he saw the truth. Yellow and blue, framed by the moonlight, seem to pry past the skin in his face, claw between the fibres of muscle, and drill into his skull.

Something seems to relax in the man’s face. A strange glimmer of recognition. He nods to whatever is holding Mercurio down.

“Get rid of the others, we’re done here.”

Mercurio sags to the ground, unsupported by the hand. He screws his eyes shut to the sound of screams being cut short, the sick sound of metal cutting through flesh surrounding him once more. He smells the blood now, smells the death.

He feels the adrenaline leave him, hands shaking from the fear. Mercurio tries not to feel the guilt. Those bastards deserved it anyways.

Two leather shoes crowd his vision and Mercurio looks up. A hand is lowered to him. Mercurio hesitates for only a second before taking it. The man is shorter than Mercurio, might be smaller under that huge coat, too. But his gaze is no less unnerving.

“How would you like to start working with me, Mercury?”

“Uh, what?” Mercury? Mercurio shakes his head. Sure, whatever. “Yeah, yeah, sure. Anything you say, boss.” If he plays it cool, doesn't step on any toes, he might not end up a chunky puddle of gore on the ground like the rest of the men.

The man smiles widely and Mercurio’s jaw locks up when he sees pointed fangs in place of canines.

“Excellent.” Replies the vampire. “I have much needed to be done.” 

* * *

**Grand Central Art Galleries, 1992**

Michaela's claim to the title of Prince of New York in the 80s had been met with much controversy, but little true opposition. She had found herself in the fortunate position of being politically stable enough for most of the New York power players to either be indebted, or allied to her.

Any Kindred who objected to her rule were either Camarilla agents of low to middling rank, or the Anarchs. The sect had failed to truly thrive in the city from the pressure of the better established Sabbat and Camarilla.

Sebastian had found himself as Michaela's Malkavian Primogen; repayment for her backing him and LaCroix Foundations after he cut ties with the mob to pursue more legitimate business avenues. Which, in all honesty, was no different than to what he used to do. Only with less direct bloodshed.

While the position had all the power and prestige Sebastian wished to enjoy, the downsides included the sheer number of appearances he had to make in Camarilla society. Like the gathering he was currently at, in the same art gallery he had met the Prince in all those decades ago.

The art pieces hanging on the walls were different; the regionalism-style paintings of Grant Wood and Thomas Hart Benton had lost their places to the modern, neo-expressionism pieces by artists like Norris Embry and Kevin Larmee.

But the bones of the building, and the faces in it, were all the same. Sebastian still had his thick overcoat, now considered a vintage relic of the past. He'd had the hole Thrysk made in it sewn shut decades ago, but he could still feel the ridge of threads if he flexed his shoulders a certain way.

The gallery was buzzing with intrigued Camarilla power players who had seen the Ventrue rise to power with poorly concealed contempt. Now, they were clamouring to endear themselves to her, wishing to garner favour with the newest leader of New York's Camarilla. 

There was a new Sheriff by Michaela's side, too. It’s the Toreador Sheriff from Chicago, Qadir al-Asami. He must have left the city after Lodin's death, during the Sabbat’s attack on the Camarilla. He stands ever watchful, as stiff as the last time Sebastian had seen him.

They meet eyes during Michaela’s speech about how she hopes to handle the looming Sabbat threat. Without breaking the look, Sebastian takes a long drink of his blood, making a show of licking the dregs from his bottom lip. He sees Qadir’s eyes widen a fraction before the Sheriff blinks and straightens, looking out to the rest of the crowd instead. He obviously remembers the last time they’d met.

Sebastian smirks and turns his attention to his Prince’s speech. He feels someone’s gaze on him throughout the speech, and later on as he speaks with other Camarilla Kindred. It’s more distracting than he’d care to admit, but also thrilling.

Throughout his time in New York, he’d had the chance of laying with several partners; finding through trial and error what would bring back memories of his sire, and what would be pleasurable. He felt embarrassed afterwards; having to stop midway through sex because that vice of panic was clamping against his ribcage. But he knows what not to do now, fortunately. Sebastian wonders if Qadir would be receptive to his advances once more.

The red-headed Toreador, Sophie Langley, is talking to him. By the time Sebsatian has returned his attention to the conversation at hand, she’s looking at him expectantly. Sebastian gives her a tight smile, remembering she was talking about the increasing tensions between the factions.

“Try not to lose your head over all this, Langley. Whatever happens with the Sabbat will happen, we simply have to be prepared for the worst case scenario.”

Sophie gives Sebastian a false smile of her own, eyes tense. He nods his farewell. Before stepping away from the group. He turns to the Nagloper.

“You can go back to your Haven.” He says. “I’m hoping to be occupied the rest of the evening.”

The Nagloper gives him a slow blink, brow raised with an unimpressed air. He’d seen Sebastian’s flirting, then.

“Oh please, don’t give me that look. Polonia is one poorly-worded phrase away from declaring war on us, I may as well have some fun before the powder keg is lit.”

The Nagloper rolls his eyes but heads to the exit, nonetheless. The crowd parts for the imposing Kindred with more fear than anything else.

He looks back to the front of the room, where Qadir stands behind the Prince. Sebastian catches his eye and makes a show of gesturing to the side door. He sees Qadir’s eyes widen again, leaning down to whisper in Michaela’s ear. Whatever he says, Michaela nods to him before returning to talking with another Kindred. Sebastian makes his way to the door as Qadir begins to walk. 

* * *

The outside's chill has a bite to it, the kind better associated with a bad tempered cat. Sebastian wonders if this is another omen; the Sabbat weren't be pleased with Michaela announcing herself as Prince. The tensions between the sects were reaching a boiling point, even if the neonates couldn't see it. This may be what tips them over the edge.

He looks to Qadir as the other man slinks out the door. Sebastian could do with a distraction.

“It’s certainly been some time since we last met, al-Asami.” Sebastian purrs. “When was it? Thirties? Forties?”

“Thirty-four, just before that world war started up. Never had the chance to mention, but congratulations on making Primogen.” The Toreador remarks, as polite and cordial as any good Sheriff should be with the Prince's inner circle.

Sebastian lets himself preen for a moment. “Still obsessed with the baseball sport the Americans are always raving about?”

Qadir snorts. “Sure, I’m still obsessed with ‘the baseball’.”

It must have been the way he’d said it that got a chuckle out of Qadir. Not that he minded, the Toreador was so dour most nights, his laugh was quite pleasant. 

Sebastian takes a step closer to the Toreador.

“Now, I didn’t come out here to catch up with you.” He says, tone low.

“Oh really? What a surprise.” Qadir drawls back, his own voice drawing down to a rumble as the Malkavian neared.

Sebastian reaches out to Qadir, watching his eyes flare as Sebastian firmly grasps his tie, and pulls. Qadir doesn’t move closer, but he doesn’t pull away, either.

“Unless, of course, you aren’t interested?” He asks, looking up from his fingers as they run over the smooth silk of the tie.

“I never said that.” Qadir responds, hoarsely. His eyes are blazing and Sebastian watches his nostrils flare. They’re very close to each other now. If they were still alive Sebastian would have been able to feel the heat rolling off the Toreador. Sebastian smirks, running the pad of his thumb over the tip of the tie, before letting it fall back over Qadir’s chest.

“Then we may as well get started, yes?” Sebastian gives him a smile with more teeth than necessary. Qadir surges forward, in response.

Sebastian feels the bricks scratch against his coat as Qadir presses him against the wall. They kiss, rough and open mouthed. There’s an edge of fever in their actions, both feel the stress around them. Sebastian has a hand on the back of Qadir’s neck, pulling him down to kiss him deeper. He moans into Qadir’s mouth as the Toreador grabs his thigh, pulling it up to hook around his hip. 

His other hand runs under Qadir’s jacket to feel the muscles across his flank. Qadir rolls his hips, grinding their groins together through the layers of fabric. Neither were hard yet, a result of their vampiric nature, but the sensation was pleasant all the same. Sebastian pulls away with a superficial gasp.

“Should we continue this at your Haven, or mine?” Sebastian says, breathily. Qadir nips at his neck before sucking at it, laving his tongue against Sebastian’s dead pulse point.

“Yours is closer.” He rumbles. Sebastian feels Qadir’s hands grope along his thighs and ass before they pull away.

They flag down a cab, buzzing with arousal and anticipation. The rain picks up, as Sebastian leads the Toreador to his penthouse suite. They know something is going to happen in the city, something violent. Have for years now.

But for this night they distract each other with their bodies. With slick friction that makes Sebastian ball up his fists in his sheets, as Qadir moves inside him. Their skin feels warm, if just for the night. It passes in a blur of pleasure and choked moans, fingers digging into hips and running down muscular backs.

* * *

Qadir dresses quickly, afterwards, as Sebastian wipes himself down with a towel.

“This doesn’t mean anything.” Qadir tells him, as the Toreador does up his tie. He looks down at Sebastian like he’s expecting something.

Sebastian raises a brow. “Was it supposed to?”

If the Toreador is hurt by his remark, Qadir doesn’t show it. He instead nods, door clicking shut behind him as he leaves.

Sebastian huffs, frowning up at the ceiling. What was the Toreador expecting of him? He wasn’t exactly looking for any meaningful relationship with the Sheriff of New York City of all Kindred. Sebastian shakes his head, turning to stare up at the skylight and watch the rain fall down the window.

* * *

**91 st Street Station, 1999**

The 91st Street Station had sat abandoned for forty years now. The fossil of old, green tiles and buzzing fluorescent lights, full of dead moths and spiders, sits quiet and forgotten. Despite the vigour of the city, it was easy for entire subway lines to be forgotten.

But what the mortals cast away, the undead snap up to claim from the shadows. Beneath the echoing ghost of long gone trains, snarls rip through the stagnant air and the clash of metal on metal rings out against the railroad tracks. 

A clawed hand catches the faint, white light before it slashes downwards. Vitae spatters against the tiles, black and dripping in the faint light. Something gurgles, and the flare of burning embers illuminates the battle for just a moment.

Sebastian turns from Jezebelle, tightening his grip on his sword and slashing across him. The blow glances off the Sabbat shovelhead, who slips and falls off the platform and onto the train tracks. Sebastian leaps down, impaling the Sabbat and letting the ashes burn red against his face, before submerging him in darkness once more.

Another shovelhead screeches out a gurgle of pain as the Nagloper, in Chiropteran form, rips its head off. The tunnel falls silent once more, covered in the ash and vitae of fallen Sabbat combatants.

“We must be getting close,” echoes Jezebelle’s voice. “That last group was more vicious than the others.”

Sebastian nods in agreement, sheathing his sword. “There were more true Sabbat as well, not just those shock troops.”

“Think we should start looking for the tunnel?”

Sebastian turns to look up at the Nagloper in a silent command. The Nagloper nods, using Auspex to investigate the area.

Michaela was dead. Unfortunate, but unsurprising in hindsight.

Archbishop Polonia wasn’t known for his diplomacy. Some months ago now, Michaela had reached out to Polonia, asking to negotiate territory in the city. She'd never been one for outright conflict, something many of the young Camarilla Ventrue seemed to shy away from these days.

As the Archbishop entered her haven, Polonia told Michaela that he had his offer in his hand. In a motion too sudden for the Prince to summon any defences, the Lasombra had decapitated her with one swing of his sword. Sebastian had barely escaped as the Sabbat pack descended on the assembled Primogens.

At that moment, the Camarilla knew just how willing the Sabbat were to negotiate peacefully. War had been announced not too long afterwards. It did not take long for forces to assemble; Archon Theo Bell and Justicar Cock Robin being amongst the four-hundred Kindred smuggled into the city by the Giovanni clan. It was time the Camarilla’s counter offer.

Now, Sebastian was in an abandoned subway tunnel, searching for the hidden entrance to an important Sabbat compound. His ghoul, Mercurio, had managed to smuggle in large quantities of astrolite, a potent explosive from the West Coast. The Brooklyn native seemed to know just about every black market arms dealer in both the States and below the border.

Under the veil of Obfuscate, Sebastian was to sneak the bombs into the compound and sprint out of the building before the charges were set off. The explosion would violate the Masquerade, possibly, but Sebastian wasn’t looking to fight the Sabbat head-on. 

The Nagloper taps against a section of the tiles, hollow sound ringing out from behind his talon. Sebastian and Jezebelle share a look, before joining the Nagloper. They join in, knocking the wall and finding the borders of an entrance by the hollow sounds. Using a crowbar dropped by one of the shovelheads, Jezebelle jabs at the wall until the end with a sharp wedge sinks into a gap. She grins at her find.

Sebastian steps back as his companions begin to pry the door open, old concrete screeching at the motion. A soft breeze of rancid smelling air drifts from the exposed tunnel, wafting along Sebastian’s face in a macabre greeting. He can hear the whispers bounce along the curved walls, that lead deep into the darkness.

_Sword of Caine flashing in the night._

_Here there be Dragons._

“You ready?” Jezebelle says, interrupting the whispers. How rude.

Sebastian turns to her, nodding. The Nagloper hands him the thick bundle of pentaerythritol tetranitrate. The tangle of red and yellow wires were connected to a timer, set for two minutes.

“Don’t be too slow.” Jezebelle tells him, looking at the glowing red 02:00.

“Careful Gangrel, or you’ll have me thinking you care about my wellbeing.” Sebastian drawls.

“In you dreams, rat.” She huffs, stepping back. Her and the Nagloper had ten minutes, before they started running as far as they could from the area. Else they be caught in the massive inferno of the explosion, or encounter any surviving Sabbat elders.

Sebastian nods to the Nagloper, then ducks into the darkness of the tunnel. He lets those old, familiar shadows drape over him, shoes padding against the rubble and concrete. It had been far too long since he’d done any real groundwork like this.

A glowing red exit sign above a steel door sends the shadows of the stairs beneath it down the tunnel. Sebastian glances back, the crimson framing his profile and catching in his pupils. With a final sweep of the dark tunnel, the Malkavian’s form shimmers and disappears from view.

Seemingly on its own, the steel door inches open, then clicks shut.

Twelve minutes later, the force of a massive explosion blows the door off its hinges, sending it screaming down the tunnel with the embers of dying Sabbat.

* * *

**Brooklyn Bridge Park, 2000**

Sebastian looks out over the Hudson, as the fireworks spark and flash against the water with those clashing, vigorous colours. The beginning of the millennium, the mortals called it. He has seen two-hundred centuries, the turn of another simply didn’t hold the same thrill.

“Enjoying the fireworks?” Jezebelle says to his left. Her famulus had made its way onto her lap, she strokes the tomcat’s head absentmindedly as she looks out to the city.

“They’re bright.” He grouses, blinking away the spots of lights still flashing in his vision.

Jezebelle snorts. “They’re supposed to be.”

Sebastian rolls his eyes, laying against the bench they’d been sitting on. He stares up at the sky, bleached with the orange and white of the city’s lights.

He hears Jezebelle sigh. “Any idea what’s going to happen, now?”

“With what?”

“With the Sabbat, Calebros, the hunters, turn of the millennium, take your pick.” She frowns at the ground. “I risked my life fighting those Sword of Caine bastards, and what do I have to show for it? Nothing. Calebros has been talking about standing down already, some Childer of Michaela is meant to take his place.”

“And you’ve lost all credibility in your boasts.” Sebastian concludes. With him and most other elders either dead or out of power, Jezebelle had no reputable sources to rely on.

Jezebelle grunts, nodding with a frown. Sebastian thinks he should say something, offer some kind of platitude. But why should he? He doesn’t control the will of the Camarilla, nor who survives to tell her story. It was certainly a shame the Gangrel hadn’t gotten the esteem she’d been hoping for, but it had nothing to do with Sebastian.

So instead he looks back out to the Hudson, as the firework display fizzles out to darkness once more. He almost doesn’t hear Jezebelle’s next words.

“I think I’ll leave.” She mutters. “There’s nothing for me here.”

Sebastian frowns, and opens his mouth to speak. But Jezebelle doesn’t let him, just yet.

“And I know you’re going to try and spin it in such a way that I stay in your coterie, you greasy little rat.” She elbows him.

Sebastian scoffs and returns the gesture. “You wound me.”

“But I’m serious. I’m tired of this. Of the Camarilla, of the city. I don’t want to be tied down by any debts before I go. And that means I'm due repaying you that favour afterthe Arcanum business.”

He ignores whatever emotion bubbles up in his throat and clenches his jaw. She’s leaving, that’s her choice. It’s not like it affects him, in the end.

“So, what? You pay me? Gift me an enhanced weapon you have squirreled away in some abandoned factory?”

Jezebelle shakes her head. “I’ve been thinking about this for a while, now. There’s a reason Gangrel have Protean. It’s an extension of our Beast, the manifestation of our connection with the gnawing hindbrain that lives within all Kindred.

“The other clans seek to reject or ignore their Beasts, we Gangrel hope to become one with it. If you were any other clan, I wouldn’t be offering this. But you’re Malkavian. Wildlings, Faeblood. You understand the Beasts like we do, but through a different lens."

She leans across to look Sebastian in the eyes.

"So what do you say, Seb? Do you want to learn Protean?”

* * *

The process had been quick, Jezebelle giving Sebastian a vial of her blood, after assuring him it wouldn’t create any form of blood bond. He took to the Discipline relatively quickly, the strange buzzing of his Beast felt like that of the moon and its prophecies. Maybe they were the same – maybe a fragment of the moon and its energy was in his blood, and was a part of him. 

Shapechange had been an integral lesson to Protean, with Jezebelle favouring the ability and Sebastian most interested in it, out of the others. They had gone to a clearing, isolated enough from the rest of the prying mortal population. Jezebelle is convinced he'll become a coyote, or perhaps a very large rat. Sebastian had given her a dirty look at made the Gangrel laugh for the first time in a year. Jezebelle was certainly acting strange throughout the lessons; less rough, almost encouraging as he learning the different facets of the Discipline. 

“Remember a time where an encounter with an animal stuck with you," Jezebelle advises, circling Sebastian. His coat is looped over her arm as he stands in the centre of the clearing. "Feel the Beast inside of you, let it see what you saw in the creature. Then, let it spread. Convince your muscle, your bones, your skin, to take its shape. Do not let fear or discomfort halt the transformation, it will only hurt you.”

Sebastian looks at her a moment longer, brow raised. He closes his eyes when Jezebelle gestures at him to focus. 

He thinks back to times he's interacted with animals; the war horses of Napoleon's army, the hunting dogs he'd killed in Germany during his time with Ziener, the old cat that used to take scraps back in Calais. None truly stand out.

Except, perhaps, for one.

In his minds eye, Sebastian sees the ocean. It rocks against his feet, tingling his nose with the smell of sea salt. Something is flying, out across the water. A bird, white and graceful as it dips with the waves, and soars with the wind. The albatross. Sebastian feels the full moon look down at him, blankly intrigued. 

Without taking his mind's eye away from the seafarer, Sebastian calls upon Protean. The bird draws closer.

It's a strange sensation: the burn of his bones hollowing out, the stretch of his fingers as they fuse and elongate. His teeth shift and meld, and a beak takes its place. His skin itches as the shafts of long, white feathers take the place of hair in his pores.

With a wave of vertigo, Sebastian opens his eyes. Jezebelle peers down at him.

"A giant seagull. Alright." She shrugs. "Never took you for the... _flighty_ type."

Sebastian pecks her. _Albatross, prick._

"Oh piss off," she kicks at Sebastian, who flails away with flapping wings and a displeased shriek. "Now you may be somewhat disorientated, but it helps to just move in this new form."

She gestures to the sky. "Try taking off, or whatever it is that birds do. This would have been easier if you'd become something with four legs." She mutters under her breath.

It takes more than a couple tries; Sebastian's wings are too long for him to take off standing, and there isn't enough room for a running lift off. It eventually ends with Jezebelle hefting him up into the air, so Sebastian had enough time to create the lift necessary to take flight. With three powerful flaps of his wings, stretching down far enough for the tips to brush against the Gangrel's face, the ground and Jezebelle begin to grow further away. 

The old human instincts still remain, nestled up there in his brain. Telling him he was going to plummet to his Final Death any moment now. But the rest of Sebastian seems to know what to do, pushing against gravity until he could feel the time was right. 

He extends his wings, tucks his feet into the soft down of his torso, and flies. 

The wind whispers and his feathers listen, responding in twitches that adjust his trajectory in time with the changing air currents. He feels tendons lock the bones of his wings in place, coasting along the invisible waves of thermals.

The smells are different, sharper almost. He sees the night sky and it is a swirling medley of purple, white, red, blue - not just black anymore. A thousand magnitudes of a thousand colours he will never be able to see as a human, and will forget the moment he turns back. He looks down and sees the pulsing jewel of the city he had spent eighty years living in. It's not so filthy up here, not as complicated. 

He sails through the air, to the harbour. The thrill of the plunge only matched by the sensation of catching the updraft bouncing off the waves, throwing him above the water at the last moment. He flies out to the freighters as they come in to port. Some of the sailors point up at him as he flies close, only to be pulled away by the wind once more. Feeling brave, Sebastian flies further into Manhattan, catching his ghostly reflection along the dark panels of glass. Some mortals stop to gawk as Sebastian flies barely a meter above taxis and cars, his long wingspan almost encircling the vehicles.

After what could have been hours, but felt like minutes, Sebastian circles around, catching sight of the clearing he had taken off from.

By the time he gathers the willpower to rip himself from the sky, feathers shrinking and bones splitting in fingers once more, the clearing is quiet. He looks around him, and sees no sight of Jezebelle or her famulus.

She’s gone. For good this time, if the Gangrel was to be believed. He feels something stir, in the centre of his chest. Almost like he'd wanted her to say goodbye.

Sebastian looks around for a moment, before grabbing his coat from where Jezebelle had hung it onto a tree branch. At least she didn't dump it on the ground, for all that Sebastian jibed at her for having poor hygeine. He stares at his coat before shrugging it on.

There is nothing for him here anymore, New York had lost its lustre for Sebastian. The itch of staying in one place was becoming too unbearable to ignore these days, as well. He'd heard the West Coast had plenty to offer, after the revolts. Sebastian wonders if he could claim a domain there, in the cities of the Anarch Free States. 

It would certainly be a challenge. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There was also going to be a 2003 LA scene, but it would've been swallowed up by the sheer amount of writing that NYC took up. Good on you for reading all of that; go have a cuppa, my treat. The next chapter should be up relatively quickly and covers what i'd meant to cover in this chapter lmao
> 
> ik that there's a whole mafia companion book to vtm but i rlly didn't want to read the whole thing so i based the mafia in NYC off the real life families instead of what white wolf conjured up  
> Hellene Panhard, Michaela's successor has black hair, sebastian had a vision of both of them simultaneously and assumed them to be the same person  
> Gianni D'angelo is a possible companion in CoNY, and Jezebelle is the sire of Tamika, another companion
> 
> feel like i should justify Why i gave seb a birdsona lmao, hold on for a zoology student infodump  
> \- albatrosses are seabirds, and lacroix was born + grew up by the sea, and the sea is often associated with the moon as well  
> \- most of the chapters so far start with him on a boat or on the sea, travelling: albatrosses can fly the span of an entire ocean each year, some travelling 3 million miles in their lifetime  
> \- him learning how to turn into a bird, and by extension learning how to fly, symbolises his yearning and need for freedom, which he only got after dealing with both thrysk and ziener  
> \- albatrosses are huge, the species he can turn into (Indian yellow-nosed albatross, which is also the only atlantic dwelling albatross species) has a 6'6" wingspan, so it accounts for the WoD rules for protean shapechange where it has to be similar in size/weight


	5. Lyssa, Goddess of Frenzy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daughter of Nyx, sprung from the blood of Ouranos.  
> The personified spirit, or daimona, of rabies in animals.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> general warning for graphic depictions of violence, animal death, and sexual content (The last one is NOT connected to the first two lmao)

**Los Angeles, 2003**

Nines rolls his shoulders, bowing against the rain as it spits down on Santa Monica. The faint, yellow light inside the Brothers Salvage office streams out into the night, flickering every couple of seconds. Nines slips past the chain link gate and ducks under the awning. The old hinges rattle in their holdings as he knocks the door with the side of his fist.

When there’s no response, Nines tries the door handle. It’s unlocked. He pushes the door, and it shudders open with a loud creak. Despite the lights being on, no one’s home. He walks through the small building, wooden boards groaning underfoot. A monitor hums away in the corner, water cooler refrigerating unit turning on with a click. Nines smells something wet that clings to the back of his throat.

Nines frowns at the absent chairs, some angled like the workers had stood up and never got to straighten them before they left. Where are they?

The back door is wide open, rain leaving a sizeable puddle by the entrance. It’s beginning to creep further into the room. The sight does little to calm Nines’ nerves. The distant sounds of baying dogs and crunching metal can be heard beneath the rain.

Nines unholsters his gun, and walks towards the back door. A pitbull barks and howls at Nines from behind a chain link fence. It was a shame animals could sense the predatory nature of Kindred; he liked dogs. His Beast howls with the dogs outside, something is lingering there.

Nines turns away from where it jumps behind the fence. Faint, crunching sounds emanate from the junkyard. Like metal being crushed underfoot. He frowns, and walks further in.

Towers of stacked cars hum with the rain, surrounding Nines on all sides. Corroded iron and the smell of chemical paint stripper crowds his senses. Shadows cling to the old skeletons of hollowed out Chryslers and Buicks, rotting fabric and barking dogs peeking from the shadows.

There it is again, that crunch of metal.

It was strange: this place was nothing like it, but it reminds Nines of the time he’d gone bird hunting with his dad, out in the Oklahoma wilderness. Before the Dust Bowl, the Great Depression, his little brother’s death: before everything went to shit.

Nines’ dad had seen it first, amidst the dirt and the dust, and pulled Nines behind him immediately. Peeking out from behind the senior Rodriguez, Nines had lain eyes on a rabid coyote for the first time. Its shivering, jerking limbs and frothing mouth had haunted Nines’ dreams for weeks afterwards.

Black, glossy eyes watered as it stared at them, terrified and in pain. Its back legs dragged limply against the ground, paralysed. Mouth open and frothing, it gasped for air like it was drowning. Nines’ dad had looked down at it for a moment, face pinched.

Then he’d raised his rifle and shot it. Nines remembers the small holes just above its left eye, blood leaking out of the wounds as the corpse twitched in the dirt.

His father had turned to Nines then: kneeling down and asking if he knew why papa had killed the coyote. Nines, face still chubby with baby fat and teary eyed from the experience, had shaken his head.

_No puedes salvar a un animal rabioso, Armando. Su única salvación es la muerte._

A growl rumbles low enough to shake his ribcage, jolting Nines from his memories. He whips his head up to the source of the sound, and catches the hulking form of a large, wolf-like creature.

Its claws, long enough to be talons, grind against the frame of a rusted truck. The roof of the car it was perched on begins to crumple under its weight, the sound of crunching metal chorusing its powerful snarls.

Its silvery fur catches on the moonlight, and Nines realises with a plummet that he is staring into the ruthless gaze of a werewolf. Thick, corded muscle ripples underneath a scarred pelt, stained with blood and rainwater. The sheer size of the creature casts a large shadow over Nines as it begins to circle him.

Nines takes a step back, eyes locked with the creature. For the first time in decades, he is not the predator in a confrontation. The reality settles around him, congealing on his feet and rooting Nines to the ground. Nines’ hands clench tighter around his gun, index finger moving down the trigger guard to the trigger itself. He feels his own hackles rise as the thing begins to move along the ridge of stacked car frames.

Its eyes are bright yellow, pupils constricted into small pinpricks. Slavering jaws crack open, white foam dripping from black gums. Fangs the length of Nines’ thumb catch the moonlight in a ghostly white.

There’s something wrong with the creatures; it moves like how an animal shouldn’t. Muscles jerking like they didn’t belong to it anymore. Contracting in a sudden, painful fashion. Werewolves rarely enter the city, especially not in Crinos form. For one to have made it this far in, and the way it was acting...

An awful sound tears out of the creature, like the screams of a human being burned alive. It sends shivers down Nines’ back. He sees its ribcage convulsing as the creature pants, foamy spit dripping onto the car frames below it. The werewolf is covered in blood. Nines knows what happened to the workers, now. 

He remembers the coyote, out in the dust and dirt, abandoned by its pack. The werewolf looks like that, acts like that. Nines sees it now; the thing was sick. It was alone and being eaten alive by whatever had infected it. And it now was running off the base instincts of a predator.

It arches its back; howl and scream melding together in a haunting, dual-toned chorus. Its yellow eyes vibrant in the darkness.

Then it charges.

Nines has been in enough fights for calling on Celerity to be second nature. It saves his unlife as he darts out of the way of the werewolf. Its massive jaws clamp around the space where his head was, not a moment ago. The shriek of collapsing metal rings out into the junkyard, followed by a furious roar.

Nines fires off three shots as he backpedals, trying to hit its limbs and slow the creature down. There was no way he could kill it with just a handgun. Two bullets hit its left thigh and the werewolf flinches for a moment before continuing its assault.

With a Protean-hardened fist, Nines sends a heavy punch into the bullet wound that had yet to heal. The werewolf shrieks in pain and Nines feels something give under his fist. He has no time to celebrate: the werewolf lunging and trying to snap its enormous jaws around him.

Nines rolls out of the way, under swinging claws and gnashing fangs. He’s almost swept over by its massive tail, but Nines isn’t caught off guard that easily. He jumps over the limb and clears away from the range of the werewolf’s attacks.

Taking advantage of the distance, Nines shoots the wolf twice more, hitting it in the hip and abdomen this time. Blood glugs from the hip wound in thick spurts, he must have nicked the femoral artery.

It doesn’t look like its wounds are closing, something Nines intends to use to his full advantage. The werewolf will bleed out in the end. He can play this game of attrition, had done for years with the Camarilla.

He turns and begins to run before the werewolf can close the distance between them. Upon rounding a corner too quickly, Nines slips on the mud as the rain lashes down. He pauses, in an attempt to regain his footing.

But that moment of hesitation costs Nines, the werewolf ramming into him with all the force of a bullet train. The force of the hit sends Nines flying.

He crashes the frame of an old truck, frame warping itself around him. The werewolf pries the metal away from him, maw opening to bite his head off. Nines fires his last two shots into its mouth, and the beast rears back with a gurgled shriek.

Nines scrambles from the frame and away from the werewolf as it stumbles back, clawing at its throat and spitting up blood. He runs. His gun is useless now. Nines grits his teeth and turns a sharp left around a tower of blue and yellow cars, dust kicking up and sticking to his boots.

He hears the werewolf’s panting; it’s getting louder with each passing second, despite Nines sprinting with the added power of Celerity. The thing is running itself ragged, throwing everything it had at Nines with the single-minded desire to tear him apart.

Charge a gun, run from a blade. Cower from the werewolf.

_Should’ve brought my fucking grenades._

He’s somewhere in the centre of the junkyard now; the white base of the crane towering over him, hook swaying in the breeze. Nines has lost sight of the creature, jumping at every sound and shadow that comes near him.

Searing pain suddenly lances across his back as the werewolf slashes him from behind. Nines is thrown to the ground with a pained grunt. He flips onto his back, catching the werewolf’s claws. Nines only just manages to stop it from disembowelling him through the added power of Potence.

He clings to the werewolf, grabbing the thumb with both hands, and _wrenching_. He rips the thumb with enough force for it to snap to the side at a jarring angle. The werewolf shrieks to the sound of breaking bones, wet and visceral. Nines catches the bright white of the phalange before thick blood begins to pour out of the large tear.

The werewolf heaves Nines forwards, making him lose his grip on its paw. He rolls along the ground, pushing himself up into a standing position. The werewolf lunges again, but this time Nines is ready.

With both hands, he catches the thing’s muzzle, clamping it shut. Nines roots himself to the ground, stance wide. He twists its head, lower jaw facing the sky. Nines pushes the head down in an attempt to get a boot on its neck to break the cartilage of its trachea.

But the blood and foam smeared along its muzzle has made the fur slick and difficult to hold onto, and the werewolf worms out of his grasp. It wildly swings its arms in his direction, backhanding Nines before he can get away.

He collides with the white base of the crane, hitting it with enough force to crack his skull. Nines chokes back a scream and it comes out as a fanged grimace. If Nines were mortal, he would be unconscious, probably seizing as his skull filled with blood.

Nines feels his vitae burn as his body furiously attempts to heal itself. He cracks an eye open and tries to force himself to stand, but his limbs are too slow to respond.

The werewolf straightens, watching him struggle to orientate himself. A chittering growl crawls up to Nines as the shape-changer prowls towards him, yellow eyes burning.

It moves with more purpose than it had before. Whether it was a moment of lucidity for the creature, or it taking the time to draw out his Final Death, Nines was too dizzy to know.

He feels, an enormous paw slam into his chest, pinning his arms to his sides and immobilising him against the crane. Nines wheezes as thick, black claws dig into his back. Its talons twitch as the wolf trembles.

He stares into one, white eye as the moonlight catches off its glinting pupils. The beast rears its head, almost to gloat. Foam and blood streak its silver fur, and the stench of rot wafts off its body.

Nines thrashes with all his remaining strength as the werewolf slowly lowers its maw over his head. His back and head thud against the crane during his struggle to escape the beast.

The werewolf’s teeth encircle his head. Nines feels its canines puncture his flesh with little resistance. An eye bursts, as the werewolf begins to bite down. He feels the fangs grinding against the bones of his head. The aching, sharp pain of multiple lacerations tears across his face.

The dull pressure begins to mount as the werewolf relishes in the kill, slowly biting down with all the leisurely force of a hydraulic press.

Nines tries to kick the werewolf’s wounds, but they’re too high up for him to reach. The thing is well over nine feet tall. The pain increases as he continues to struggle, and Nines is seized with an overpowering sense of panic.

He can’t fucking die like this; he still has a job to do, people who rely on him. After everything Nines has fought against with every shred of his being, every drop of Brujah blood in his body, this can’t be where it ends.

As the pressure reaches the breaking point, a furious yell roars out of Nines, rattling the crane above.

The ear-splitting crack of a hunting rifle’s gunshot is fate’s reply.

Nines feels the werewolf’s teeth tear across his face from the impact. The pressure lets up and blood sprays his upper body as another shot rings out across the courtyard. The werewolf shrieks, turning to the new attacker and dropping Nines.

He blearily wonders if the gun is firing hollow point bullets, considering how affected the werewolf was by the impact. Good for shredding and tearing at the flesh of supernaturals like it was nothing. 

Nines lets himself feel that overwhelming sense of relief a moment longer, before crawling away on his elbows. Head dragging along the ground, he manages to pull himself up using the car frames.

The scuffle between the other attacker and the werewolf rages on from the other side of the crane. Nines clings to the car frame, knowing that if he were to let himself fall now, he wasn’t going to get back up.

A finger taps his shoulder.

“Uh, hey buddy. You alright?”

Nines whips around, fangs bared and fist raised. A man jumps out of the way of his wild punch, palms raised.

“Oh fuck! Hey! Do I look like an overgrown dog to you?”

“Who… The fuck… Are you.” Nines slurs. He feels his face twitch as severed muscle fibres slowly reconnect and nerve endings begin to fire once more. Vitae drips into his mouth and down his neck, making his white under shirt pink and ruining his good jeans.

“Let’s do introductions later, big guy.” The man doesn’t sound like he’s from Cali. He has a strange accent, like something out of The Godfather.

“Listen, the boss ain’t gonna be able to hold that ugly motherfucker off for long. My job right now is to give you a boom stick – er, gun, and a bit of a boost before sending you back in there.”

Nines’ vision zeroes in on the red of the blood bag in the man’s hand. Before he realises his actions, Nines had snatched it from his hand and downed half its contents in one greedy gulp. His vision clears almost instantly; dizziness fading as Nines’ strength returned to him. The skin is still tender, probably isn’t fully healed over yet, either. But Nines won’t go into a Frenzy anytime soon, and he can fight. That’s what matters.

“What do you have on you?” He asks, looking back at the other side of the crane. Nines does a double take when he sees just who it is locked in combat with the werewolf.

It’s Prince LaCroix, staring down the iron sights of his rifle with a focused gaze. His hands are steady as they track the erratic movement of the snarling werewolf. A final shot rings out, catching the werewolf in the face and tearing out a chunk of its snout. The beast is panting heavily now, bleeding from the large pits the bullets had made in its torso. But it wasn’t slowing down.

“Machete and a fully loaded Desert Eagle – fifty cal, hurts like a bitch.” The man tells him. Nines nods and takes both.

“Don’t get yourself killed.” He tells the stranger, who he assumes to be an underling of LaCroix. Maybe a ghoul.

The man shakes his head. “You couldn’t pay me to go near that thing. I’ve gotta call in the cavalry, anyways.”

He immediately begins running into the junkyard, towards the main office and away from the fight. Nines watches him disappear behind a stack of trucks before turning back to the fight.

LaCroix’s expression turns fierce and the werewolf suddenly doubles over, clutching its chest from whatever havoc Dementation was wreaking on its heart. LaCroix uses the chance to reload his rifle. Nines watches the man load five shots with deft, practised motions – the Malkavian was more capable with a firearm than he would have expected.

Nines doesn’t know how many magazines the Prince brought with him, but he doubts it’ll be enough to down the beast before it killed them both. The bullet wounds looked nasty, but they weren’t getting past its thick skin to damage its organs.

Nines stares up at the crane, at the hook swaying in the breeze. It has a wicked point, thick chain suspending the equipment in the air. There has to be a control panel for it somewhere.

He waves his arms to get LaCroix’s attention before the werewolf readies another attack. He points at the hook, LaCroix following his finger. The Malkavian seems to get the gist of what Nines is implying, and nods.

They circle the werewolf, keeping an eye on it and dodging out of the way as it lunges. The other Kindred would shoot the werewolf if it got too close to the other, something they didn’t need to communicate. It was strange to Nines, how well they worked together.

Maybe it’s what happens when two experienced combatants work together, maybe it’s something more. Nines is too interested in surviving to think about the implications of their intuitive cooperation.

Nestled between two car stacks, hidden by the shadows, LaCroix reaches the control panel first, telling Nines as such.

Nines clambers into the frame of one of the trucks. As the werewolf shoves its face into the window hole, Nines shoots it in the snout. Its nose and teeth exploding in a red, chunky mist.

The werewolf backs away immediately, howling and grasping at its face with its oversized paws. As it straightens, forcing itself to ignore the pain, it catches sight of LaCroix at the control panel.

It starts running. If Nines were alive, his heart would’ve jumped into his throat.

Nines quickly exits the car, aiming down the sights in hopes of diverting the wolf’s attention from the Prince. His gun clicks – out of ammo. Nines glares at the gun, before looking up to see the werewolf charging at LaCroix’s turned back. Shit.

“LaCroix! Behind you!”

The Malkavian barely has time to raise his arm as the werewolf lunges. Instead of biting off his head, though, its jaws latch around his forearm. Nines can see LaCroix’s white knuckled grip on the crane controls, struggling to stay on the ground. His face was contorted into a grimace as he fights to stop the werewolf from tearing off his arm.

Nines sees the hook lower, and runs towards it without a second thought. He jumps, managing to grab it in both hands. Eyes glued on the struggling mass of grey and black in front of him, Nines sprints.

“Pull it up!” Nines screams, before he hefts the hook above his head.

With an almighty swing, the crackling green energy of Potence wreathing his arms, Nines slams the rusted hook into the middle of the werewolf’s back.

The tip comes out the other end, hook deeply embedded in the werewolf’s skin. It rears back immediately, flinging LaCroix into the air until it loses its grip on his arm. The werewolf snaps at Nines, who dodges back from its bloodied fangs.

It lets out a shocked shriek, before it can continue its onslaught on the Kindred. LaCroix glares up at it, as the hook climbs into the air. The werewolf claws at the ground, then at its back, then at the ground. The pain and confusion as to what was happening to it stopping the werewolf from freeing itself. The chain clinks against the crane as the werewolf thrashes, now suspended in the air.

The howling screams become whimpers, werewolf hanging like a slab of butchered meat. Blood drips from the wounds. A small puddle gathers beneath, mixing with the rainwater. The werewolf’s dark reflection is tiny in the rippling pools below it, fragile.

“It will fall, eventually.” LaCroix says, staring up at the writhing beast. “Its spine cannot support its weight like that.”

His gaze flicks down to his bleeding arm, seemingly disinterested in the sight above. Nines hears the Malkavian tut as he looks at the damage the wolf caused to his jacket. His fingers curl through the holes the werewolf left when it had bitten down on him. Nines can see the wound beneath had yet to heal.

“We should put it out of its misery.” Nines remarks, frowning as the werewolf wheezed out pained whines. “It’s suffered enough.”

“You can lower that thing down yourself, I’m not touching it.” LaCroix responds with a raised brow.

Nines wants to argue, maybe fight some more – the rush of Potence still calls in his vitae. But then Nines looks back up at the werewolf, and sees the coyote again. He feels as scared as he did then, underneath the anger and determination. Nines frowns, clutching at his wounds. They ache now, demanding to be heard. His face feels raw, it burns in the rain.

A familiar voice from behind Nines breaks him from his reverie.

“Nines! Where are yo- _What the fuck is that thing?_ ” Ah, Damsel. Nines has never been so happy to hear her yelling before.

He feels his shoulders sag as he turns to face a small group of Anarchs. Skelter and Jack can be seen amongst the crowd led by Damsel, all armed.

“Hey, Damsel.” Nines replies, feeling the rush of the fight fade. “You missed out on all the fun.”

“I wouldn’t call having my limbs crushed by a mad werewolf _fun_ , Anarch.” LaCroix remarks.

“Shut the fuck up Cammie, no one asked you.” Damsel pushes in between them, peering up at Nines with a concerned frown. “You look like shit.”

“Thanks.”

"We got a call from some guy, said you were getting the shit kicked out of you in the junkyard."

That stings Nines' pride, but the ghoul wasn't exactly wrong. Nines opens his mouth to respond, but a dark shape in the sky catches his eye. It lands on a stack of trucks with a loud clatter of rusted metal. The Anarchs jolt, training their guns on the bat-like creature.

“Ah, Sheriff.” LaCroix calls out, straightening. “You took you time. If you could deal with the rabid beast over there, please, it would make the city far safer.”

Nines motions for his people to stand down, Damsel gives him a side eye but lowers her shotgun nonetheless. Nines watches with a vague sense of horror as the monster begins to pull at its own skin. The crack of bone and stretching flesh reveal the ghastly form of the Sheriff. His red eyes flick up at the werewolf and he draws the massive sword strapped to his back.

LaCroix walks back to the control panel, holding his bad arm close to his torso. The werewolf, barely conscious now, is lowered to the ground. Terrifying monster turned sacrificial lamb. He nods to the Nagloper.

The sword glints in the rain, as the Sheriff brings it above his head. In one crashing swing, he cleaves the werewolf's head clean from its neck. It slumps to the ground with no further fanfare.

Nines stares at the corpse, twitching in the mud. Its massive body is littered with gunshot and slash wounds, the sheer amount of damage on it would have killed most of the Kindred he knows.

Damsel steps in front of Nines, Skelter by her side.

"The hell were you doing here alone? Last I checked, the junkyard wasn't really a place people hung out at willingly. And why the fuck was the cape here before us?" Damsel shakes her head. "Wait, scratch that, why's that fucker here in the first place?"

Nines doesn't know if he has the energy to justify his actions, or make something up. He feels his wounds ache and hopes whatever was driving the werewolf to act like it had wasn't going to infect him. His legs become less steady as tiredness starts to get its claws into him.

"Shit, I'm tired, Damsel." Nines says instead. "Let's just get back to the Last Round, I’ll tell you everything later. Let the Cammies deal with the corpse."

Damsel looks like she's about to demand the truth from him, but Skelter lays a hand on her shoulder.

"The guy's ready to go into an early torpor, let's get out of here before sunup. Then, you can interrogate Nines." Skelter reasons. Damsel rolls her eyes, but motions for the gathered Anarchs to disperse. Nines gives Skelter a grateful look, who nods in response.

The Anarchs file out of the Junkyard behind Nines, throwing dirty looks at the Prince, who seems more unimpressed than anything else. Jack lingers, just a moment more, ubiquitous cigar somehow burning in the rain. He stares at the body, then at LaCroix. He makes a thoughtful noise in the back of his throat.

“Can I help you?” The Prince asks with a frown, as the Brujah continues staring.

They maintain eye contact a moment more, Jack puffing out a cloud of blue smoke.

Without a word, Jack follows after the Anarchs, leaving the Camarilla to clean up the mess.

* * *

Time passes; Nines' face heals and the rain washes away the blood in the junkyard. No one seemed to talk about the animal sounds and gunfire except for that conspiracy theorist who called into the Deb of Night, to let Deb know it was the martians or some shit - Nines' head had still been foggy, and he couldn't hear it over Damsel and Skelter taking the piss out of the guy.

A new layer of intrigue seemed to have ensconced Nines Rodriguez: The Werewolf Killer. Damsel found a new hobby in regaling him with the rumours she'd heard. Apparently, he'd strangled it with his bare hands, and it was actually a Gangrel Antediluvian he killed. Regardless, Nines had proven he hadn't gotten soft during the dwindling years of the Anarch Free States, and the event had even drawn more than a couple awed Kindred to the Anarch side. 

But eventually the story of Nines and the werewolf became old, swept up in the tidal wave that was Los Angeles.

He hears about an accident at Fu Syndicate - a massive fire had spread throughout the building, killing most of the employees in it. Therese Voerman finally managed to demolish that old hotel by the pier, apparently she's looking to replace it with some casino-nightclub fusion. Nines suspects Jeanette might have convinced her of the idea.

A corpse had been found in Foxy Boxes, in pieces. The authorities are attributing it to gang violence, but every Kindred came to know that the Sheriff had managed to root out and kill a Kuei-jin spy. Once news had gotten to Chinatown about the body, it mysteriously disappeared the night after. Nines wonders if it had been a message from LaCroix to Ming Xiao. Santa Monica was under neither of their territories, but that didn't seem to stop them.

Despite the political moving that had gone on in recent days, the Anarchs had yet to be raided by the growing Camarilla faction in Los Angeles. The more cynical side of Nines thinks LaCroix is just biding his time, gathering resources and allies before killing Nines himself. 

Nines finds himself thinking back to that moment with the Malkavian, with his wild eyes and capable hands.

It’s been too long since he’s fought with a real equal, not some wide-eyed Anarch who put him on a pedestal before he could get a word in sideways. Nines liked to think Skelter and Damsel were his friends, but he was still their leader. He knew they expected more of him than he could give, and there were days where that reality felt like it was drowning him.

Nines could respect the Prince for holding his own in combat. He’s not comfortable admitting he felt anything else.

But, a handful of weeks after the event in Brothers Salvage, Nines hears piano music once more. A cover of _Dancing in the Moonlight_ drifting between the floorboards of the Last Round’s second floor. Damsel hums as the music picks up.

“King Harvest’s original was the best version.” She remarks.

Skelter immediately shakes his head, turning to face Damsel from the other side of the room.

“You cannot say that when Toploader’s cover exists.”

“What?” She objects with a frown. ”The synths sound nicer than whatever Toploader was playing.”

“Even from a technical standpoint Toploader’s cover is better than the original.” Skelter argues.

“I’m just saying, King Harvest had way better vocals.”

“No no no, do not put down the singing ability of Joseph Washbourne.”

“I have no idea who that is, but I will anyways.”

Nines sees neither are going to let up and, with a faint smile, he makes his way downstairs. Their voices fade to the music and Nines sees a familiar, shimmering outline hiding by Obfuscate.

“Hey.” He says to the ghost, as he leans against the wall. LaCroix snaps into view and gives him a nod, before returning to focusing on the keys.

“I see your wounds have healed.” The Malkavian remarks.

“Not like it takes long, didn’t get any limbs bitten off.” Nines nods to LaCroix's arm. It seems fine now, hand playing the piano with its usual amount of deftness.

“You almost lost your head. I believe it counts as a limb.”

“And I have you to thank for it staying in one piece.”

LaCroix hums, the sounds around them growing as the crowd sang to the chorus of the song.

“I should apologise for not getting there sooner. I flew as soon as I realised the true contents of my vision, but by then it was almost too late.”

“Flew?”

“Slip of the tongue.” LaCroix flaps his free hand as the other finishes the song.

“Cute that you wanted to check in on me, but I healed a while back.”

LaCroix hums in response. “I’d figured that, but perhaps I came here just to play the piano.”

Nines rolls his eyes. “Sure. So yours still hasn’t shipped in from New York?” LaCroix shakes his head. “Why don’t you just buy a new one?”

“Because it’s mine.” The Malkavian responds with a frown, tone bordering on incredulous. “I have no intention of replacing it.”

Nines holds a palm up in surrender, realising he’d probably touched on a nerve. The Prince’s face relaxes and he closes the lid of the instrument.

“If you wish to continue this conversation, I am going outside. I can only hold Obfuscate on a crowd this size for so long, and I have little desire to be beaten to death by a group of Anarchs in a dive bar.” LaCroix remarks, standing from the stool.

Nines shrugs. He has nothing better to do. He trails after LaCroix, walking through the side door of the Last Round.

Jack watches them leave. He frowns at the door, sucking on his teeth. Jack rolls the ice in his glass around with a contemplative air. The Brujah thinks about what his friend had told him, not too long ago. With a snort, Jack knocks the whiskey back. The habit had grown on him, in recent days.

* * *

Genitorturers picks up where the piano music left off - Damsel must have gone downstairs to turn on her sound system. Nines can faintly hear the industry metal creeping out around the door as he steps out into the night. It smells faintly of smoke, sounds of the city faintly calling out around the small alley that the Last Round's side entrance lead to. LaCroix stands by the door, hands in his large coat's pockets. It looks clean, he must have had it repaired too, small black stitches pulling together the bite holes the werewolf had left.

"Nice night." Nines says softly, looking up at the dark sky. The lights of the city drown out the stars, but he doesn't mind it so much nowadays.

LaCroix looks up, squinting at the sky. "I suppose."

He look back to Nines. "I should come clean about coming here, as you are possibly aware, it wasn't just to play piano."

Nines gives him a look, brow raised. "Really? Wouldn't have guessed."

LaCroix rolls his eyes. "I do admit, I felt a kind of concern for your well-being when I realised what could be lurking in the junkyard, I had assumed you'd be a stain on the ground by the time I had gotten there. But you had somehow managed to go toe to toe with that monster. It's certainly... admirable."

LaCroix trails off, Nines realises LaCroix's looking at his arms. He finds he doesn't totally mind the attention.

"I came here with the hopes of a sort of arrangement between us. No strings attached, of course."

"And what kind are you thinking of, exactly?" Nines asks, though he has an idea of what LaCroix is implying. How brazen of a Camarilla elder.

"Something more physical, of course. You're a very attractive man, Nines, I'm not so foolish as to deny that. And I also know how you look at me" LaCroix responds, looking over Nines with an interested expression. "I've come to learn that some nights it's nice to simply... forget one's burdens and the ties that bind us to our sects. Not for long, mind you, but enough to make it bearable."

"You insinuating that I'd turn my back on my faction just for you?" Nines replies, bordering on a snarl.

“No, nothing of the sort.” LaCroix assures, shaking his head. “I’m not looking for any sort of emotional attachment or some kind of moral ultimatum, Rodriguez, and I doubt you are either. We have our duties, but surely we could have moments of indulgence, too.”

Nines looks down at the Malkavian, rolling his words over in his head. It strikes a chord with him, and Nines wonders just how much pressure is on the Prince from the Camarilla. LaCroix looks up to him, eyes lidded and head tilted up, waiting to see if Nines will reciprocate.

They probably shouldn’t do this, both of them leaders of opposing factions. But then Nines thinks, to hell with it. This means nothing, and he could do with a distraction.

He closes the distance, and they kiss.

LaCroix makes an appreciative noise in the back of his throat, cupping the back of Nines’ head, other hand grasping at the rough fabric of his overshirt. LaCroix walks him backwards and Nines feels his back hit the wall of the Last Round.

He wraps a hand around LaCroix’s ribcage and draws him closer, deepening the kiss. Nines moans as LaCroix presses a thigh between his legs, rolling his hips in response.

Then LaCroix pulls away, hand pressing against Nines' collarbone.

"Don't pull my hair. Don't fuck me from behind." He says, voice flinty.

Nines blinks, still processing everything else.

"Uh, yeah," he replies eloquently, "I'll stay away from both."

Something relaxes in LaCroix's posture, like he's relieved or something. Nines realises with a jolt why LaCroix might be telling him this. Nines never had a Sire, but that didn't mean he never heard of what the sadistic ones did to their Childer.

He frowns slightly. "Anything else I should know?"

LaCroix shakes his head. "No - I... No."

Nines gently grabs the backs of LaCroix's arms, drawing him in closer. LaCroix closes the distance, cupping Nines' face and kissing him.

It felt more leisurely than anything else, Nines letting the shorter man take the lead, something he hadn’t done in years. He lets his vitae burn under his skin, blush of life letting his arousal grow. LaCroix palms him through his jeans and Nines spread his legs further to accommodate it. The Malkavian’s free hand gropes along his hip and thigh, mouthing Nines’s neck as he stroked him.

Nines finishes with a choked moan, hands grabbing LaCroix’s neck and shoulder. LaCroix kisses his cheek before pulling away, handing him a cloth to wipe himself down. Nines takes it with a bleary nod, still riding the high.

* * *

“Here.” LaCroix hands him a slip of paper.

“What’s this?” Nines responds, taking it and unfolding it.

“My email and personal phone number. In case either of us are in the mood for something like this again.”

“Oh, so I don’t have to wait for you to show up at the bar so we can fondle each other in an alleyway?” Nines drawls.

LaCroix gives him a withering look that would curdle milk. “I’m taking that paper back.”

Nines shoves it in his pocket. “Nope.”

“You’re deplorable.”

“Y’know, I think you like that.”

Nines sees the smile LaCroix is trying to hide. The other man shakes his head, stalking out of the alleyway. Nines takes the slip of paper out of his jeans pocket, staring at it. He squints at the barely legible chicken scratch. One would think a Prince would have better handwriting.

Nines’ good mood sours when he remembers what he just did and with who, and the implications of it. He sighs, hoping no one saw him leave. Damsel would bite his head off, if she found out about it. He debates going to an internet café and sending LaCroix an email right now, breaking the arrangement off before it truly started.

But the wall he was leaning on is still warm from the body heat the blush of life had produced. Nines feels a rush to his groin from the recent memory. No. He thinks he deserves to indulge in this. Nines has had to carry the Anarch cause in LA alone for years after his mentors either died on him, or abandoned him. Nines feels an itch under his skin settle, after finally being acknowledged.

He carefully folds up the note, making sure it won’t crinkle in his pocket. With a final look into the alleyway, Nines re-enters the Last Round. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No puedes salvar a un animal rabioso, Armando. Su única salvación es la muerte. - There is no saving a rabid animal, Armando. Its only salvation is death.
> 
> remember the werewolf the fledgling runs from in the game? imagine a werewolf one foot taller, 50 pounds heavier, and rabid - that's what was lurking in Brothers Salvage 
> 
> so yeah, we've now caught up with MalkSeb's backstory and the end of the first part of this fic. To those who've been leaving kudos and comments, thank you so much! ;w; yous are so nice and it really encouraged me to keep writing this <3  
> heads up, i'll be taking a break from DB for a bit to focus on uni and We Don't Have To Like Each Other To Survive This, my other fic. I'm not abandoning this one or anything lmao, just want some time for it to Stew

**Author's Note:**

> and if you want, hmu on tumblr - iravaid.tumblr.com


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